Chosen of the One: Chapter 8, Part 1

7 January 2026

Today’s installment of our epic fantasy, Chosen of the One, returns us to Shigmar and the kailum as Klare leads Klaybear to the school and their masters, Myron and Avril, in the hopes that they can make sense of what happened to Klaybear in the sacred glade. . . . (20 January 2014) We again remind our readers to right-click on the Glossary link, open in a new tab or window, thus enabling the reader to learn what each of these new terms mean.

Chapter 8, Part 1

Healing can only commence once the underlying cause of the disease is removed; without its total removal, complete recovery is not possible.

Tarlana, Headmistress of Shigmar, 167-194

Klare led her husband to the gates of the school early the following morning. After having seen to the needs of the awemi, Klare reasoned that she would feel better if she led Klaybear to the school, to insure that he got there without mishap. Klaybear thanked her for her presence at his side, but said nothing else, which caused her to eye him suspiciously.

“I’m taking you to the healers,” she had said diffidently, “and I want to make sure that the Headmaster doesn’t intercept you first.” Klaybear had only smiled and nodded in response. Klare roughly wrapped bandages around both his right hand and his forehead, then pulled her husband’s hood far down over his eyes.

“If you pull it down that far,” he complained, “I’ll not be able to see where I’m going!”

“All the more reason for me to lead you,” she smiled dangerously.

Master Avril, the master healer of the school, met them at the door and would not let them pass until he had examined the wounds; Klare was his apprentice, so he had met her. “I read Rebeth’s report but did not believe it,” the thin, white-haired wethi said gravely, “particularly since I know his penchant for japes.” Master Avril carefully lifted the bandage around his forehead. “Great God!” he exclaimed, taking an involuntary step backward when he saw the mark. “How could this happen?” Then he frowned and shook his head slowly. “This will complicate things,” he said softly to himself after a moment’s pause. He replaced the bandage and pulled the hood back over Klaybear’s face. He turned to Klare. “Take him strait to the infirmary; Headmaster Myron is waiting for him there. And Klarissa,” he stopped her.

“Yes, master?” She was suddenly afraid, sensing her master’s mood.

“Don’t show this to anyone, no matter what authority he or she might invoke.”

Klare stifled her sudden fear then patted her master’s hand fondly. “Who bandaged his forehead and made him wear his hood, in spite of the warmth this beautiful spring morning?”

Avril smiled and squeezed her hand. He turned to Klaybear and sighed. “I’m envious, my son,” he said softly, “she brings to mind my long dead spouse. You have yourself a diamond here.”

“You are right, Master Avril,” Klaybear replied, “and she reminds me of that fact at least a dozen times a day.”

Klare punched him. “You ungrateful monster!” she exclaimed. Klaybear grimaced; Avril laughed. “I might have to lead you into a wall or door, or a stone column for that remark!” Klare hissed.

“Only joking, my dear,” Klaybear attempted to grin, which looked strained with his eyes covered.

Klare found the Headmaster in the infirmary’s central area, waiting for them, but before she could even greet him, he silenced her with a word and motioned that they follow him. He led them to one of the sleeping rooms, occupied by two patients resting behind screens. Klare tried to speak a second time, but the Headmaster held up his hand. He tapped the floor twice with the iron shod heel of his staff, whispered “kelnes stelni,” and a gray shimmering dome blossomed from the tip of his staff, surrounding them in silence and obscuring them from vision.

“I’m sorry to have cut you off, twice,” Headmaster Myron began, “but things are more serious than I thought,” he finished, whispering softly, although they were warded.

“My master hinted at it,” Klare said, “when we entered. I’m glad I followed my instinct.”

“I’m not,” Klaybear noted sourly.

“Stop grousing!” Klare snapped.

Myron ignored their bickering and turned to Klaybear. “Show me.”

Klaybear pulled back his hood and unwrapped the bandage surrounding his forehead; he saw a tightening around the Headmaster’s eyes, the only outward sign of Myron’s first sight of the mark. Klaybear held out his right hand.

“I’m guessing you both tried to heal these wounds?” Myron asked.

“Yes, but we are only novices in the healing art,” Klare replied.

“The wound refuses to close, and the pain increases,” Klaybear added. “I even tried one of the healing potions I took with me, which had no effect.”

Myron took Klaybear’s wrist with his left hand, holding it palm up. He moved his right hand, now glowing green, over Klaybear’s hand, but as soon as the green light contacted the wound in Klaybear’s hand, the younger kailu stiffened, jerking and trying to pull his hand away, but Myron held it tightly, bringing his own green-glowing palm into contact with the wound. Klaybear screamed in agony, jerking his hand from Myron’s grip and sinking to the floor. Klare knelt beside him before he hit the ground, wrapping him in her arms.

Myron stood stunned, his eyes wide. “It is worse than I thought,” he noted to himself, “there is a darkness in that wound that I cannot penetrate, a darkness that would swallow the world were it allowed to escape; it is somehow powered by Void, but I cannot determine how or where.” His eyes narrowed and he shook his head; he knelt by Klaybear’s other side. “We cannot allow the other kailum to attempt healing on you. That darkness would confirm to many the belief rumored about that you have sold out to Gar.”

Klaybear’s face drained of all color; Klare’s face burned.

“That’s absurd!” she shouted, voice rising in pitch. “He’s no servant of Gar! He has always been, and still remains, loyal to the One. You know this as well as I,” she added in a softer voice.

Myron took and held one of her hands. “I know, and you know,” he said, looking directly into her eyes, “but there are elements on the Council and members of this school who act against anyone that gives them the slightest hint, however far-fetched, they are in league with Gar.” He nodded toward Klaybear’s forehead. “That’s more than a slight hint; it is the mark used by all of Gar’s servants, a symbol of evil.” His head turned when Klaybear groaned; Klare remained silent, but her face still flamed. “It was all I could do this morning to keep those elements from marching to your home and arresting you on the spot. I convinced them that we should find out what happened and try to understand why it happened before jumping to conclusions. The Council will meet this afternoon to hear your story, and decide what to do.” He gripped Klaybear’s shoulder. “I fear for you, my son, given the outrage expressed by some members of the Council.” He squeezed Klaybear’s shoulder once before standing and turning away.

“What do you think they might do?” Klare asked, her voice shaking.

Myron turned to look at them. “Brand you a traitor, and you both know the punishment for one of the higher orders convicted of treason. . . .” Myron left his statement hanging.

Klare drew breath sharply; the color now drained from her face. “But you are the Headmaster and leader of the council, and you know he is no traitor; can’t you stop them?”

Klaybear sat and did not speak for a time; his eyes went blank, then his mouth worked, as if he were trying to speak, but only a moan came out for a time until words finally formed, his voice sounding alien: Awake, the sign will mark your separation from those whom you would save. . . . Then, perhaps, you will truly taste the bitterness of being chosen . . . taste the bitterness of being chosen . . . bitterness of being chosen . . . bitterness . . . chosen . . . bitterness . . . chosen bitternesschosenbitterness. . . . Klare and Myron shook his shoulders as the words he spoke blended together, her face wrinkled in concern.

“What happened?” Klare asked. “You started mumbling under your breath then spoke in a strange voice about separation and the bitterness of being chosen; I had to shake you to bring you back to the present.”

Klaybear shook his head, then looked up at Myron. “It must have been what the messenger told me,” he said distractedly, then paused in thought. “Master, has anyone ever come back from the glade and reported that his or her vision was jumbled?”

“Jumbled? What do you mean?” Myron replied.

“I’m not sure how to describe it,” Klaybear said, his brow wrinkling in concentration, “it was as if you took a deck of cards, with each card an event, then caused each card to be glimpsed for only a moment before the next, all of them in quick succession. Then the cards all flash past again, but this time in the reverse order that they were first shown. Back and forth the cards fly, but you never get to see them long enough to figure out what you have seen. Has this happened before?”

“No,” Myron said after a moment, “but all you need to do is slow them down in your mind, and examine each one by itself.”

“No,” Klaybear said, “which shows immediately that my use of cards does not work.” He paused. “Maybe if you put them all together, so that one event was smashed into the one that went before and followed, and you could not tell where one ended and the next started. . . .” He paused again. “One face or form blurs into a new face and form, before you can decide what the first face or form was, smashed together and constantly moving and changing, but with a strange sort of repetition, like the going out and coming in of the tide.”

Myron looked thoughtful. “It is odd that you should describe them in that way. Hierarch Kalamar used the same words to describe the way his apprentice’s teka-aided look into the future was interrupted by other images, ‘images smashed together.’” Myron looked around. “We need time to consider this anomaly, but I fear we will not have it. I called you here for what I hoped would be a joyful reunion, but everything has changed.” The Headmaster shook his head. “I went to visit Kalamar yesterday, to inform him that you had gone to the glade. I arrived just in time to bring back a wounded young wethi, found near his tower and rescued by his son and apprentice, Thalamar. I brought him here; we tended his wounds, and thought he would be recovered enough that you could see him, your lost older brother, Delgart.”

Klaybear leapt to his feet, eyes wide with shock. “Delgart is here?”

“He is why I called you here, this morning, so you could see him. But something happened during the night; he’s contracted some disease that we cannot cure. And the oddest thing about it is that just yesterday, a seklesa was brought to us who was involved in a battle with purem near the Mountain of Vision. She was taken in a skirmish and when they found her, many miles away, near the Iorn Gate, she was ill and could not be healed; so they brought her to us, and we have been unable to cure her disease. On both of them, the skin and flesh is rotting away, as if both were already dead and decomposing. I fear that if we do not find some cure, both will die. The only clue we have is found in a very old text, said to have been written by Shigmar himself, but rather cryptically: When his end cometh, a wasting scourge shall afflict two of the chosen oppositely. Know that legend shall walk the land bearing living waters to restore his fellow chosen. What this means, no one is sure.”

Klare stood and straightened her robes. “Can we see them?”

Myron smiled. “That is why I met you here.” Myron tapped his staff once on the floor, canceling the ward surrounding them. He moved to and then shifted one of the dividers separating them from the rest of the room. Klare went forward, her hands already surrounded by green light. Klaybear staggered back when he saw their faces, falling onto the floor as if he had been struck. . . .

Come back next time for another installment in our epic fantasy, Chosen of the One: Book 1 of The Redemption; if you prefer not to wait, you can download the entire novel for free from Smashwords!