28 September 2026
We begin the third chapter in the serialization of the third book of The Redemption series, The Morgle Unmasked. Today, we enter Klaybear’s dream, who is still ‘asleep’ following enacting breath-giver’s most terrible power, which was the end of the second book in this series. (29 February 2016) The full ebook version of this book is available for purchase from all ebook sellers. We remind all that the first book in this series, Chosen of the One, and the second book, Staff of Shigmar, are both free from Smashwords! Glossary links: Book 3, Book 2, Book 1
Chapter 3, Part 1
Damage to the patterns of a person’s mind can be repaired, in most cases, but it is impossible to replicate exactly the mental patterns as they were before damaged. The resultant alterations, although minute, can significantly alter the personality and memory of the person whose mind has been repaired. . . .
from The Annals of Melbarth, Fourth Series, Early Lectures of the Hierarchs
Lecture by Sedra Melbarth
Silence. Silence and darkness, and the darkness was cool, empty, motionless, filled with quiet rest. No accusing looks; no screams of horror; no scent of battle, battle and death, the two seemed inextricably linked, and the heavy burdens had been lifted from his shoulders. No responsibility for all those lives. No guilt, no pain, no suffering. So this is what death felt like; millennia of writing and speculation, all of it completely wrong. No Klare; Klare, there was a name that carried exquisite joy, and terrible, aching pain, and guilt. He had failed her, left her behind, and caused her horrible suffering that was his suffering and the guilt stabbed through him, piercing his heart, blinding his eyes, but there was nothing to see: how could tears blind him if he had no eyes? How could his heart be pierced with such excruciating guilt and pain if he no longer had a heart? He felt himself wracked with sobs, but how was that possible if he had no life? Contradiction, added to guilt and pain, snuffed out the feeble candle of his consciousness.
Again, silence and darkness; cool darkness and motionless rest bathing him. So this was death? Maybe, but now there was a spark, a whisper, a whiff of battle, and death, and now a hint of motion; the spark became a glow, the whisper became soft sobbing, the scent of death, and he was floating, now flying toward the light growing, sobs increasing, one voice crying many voices accusing fingers pointing up, at him, floating above rooms, prisons, roof removed, torn from the buildings and the ground the buildings once rested on, accusing faces staring up at him floating in a space that was no longer dark, but where the light was coming from could not be discerned; it came from everywhere at once, from nowhere at once. The crying voices now shouting accusations, lost opportunities, all blaming him, all looking up at him, raising hands and pointing fingers, all trapped in roofless prisons torn from buildings that must have, once, rested on ground that was solid, good brown earth that produced that which fed, once, those whose lives had suddenly been ripped out by the power of the staff of Shigmar, his staff that he could now see glowing green and clutched in his hand, the eye-shaped emerald pulsing like a thousand beating hearts ripped from those who shouted, pointed, at him, who floated above the roofless prisons that had once been buildings, filled with people who had hopes and dreams, snuffed out by his hand. The sound of many screaming voices became one screaming voice became his screaming voice, a face swimming in and out of focus, wrinkled with concern, mouth moving, but he heard no words, falling back into darkness, and silence.
A place filled with light, and now the sound of water, gently falling, and sweet, soft music with clear voices singing. Klaybear opened his eyes and found himself sitting on grass, leaning against a tree, the light dancing green over his head, leaves moved by a gentle breeze. He inhaled deeply and sat up, feeling the spongy turf beneath him, but the scent in the air he breathed was exquisite and indescribable: it smelled of flowers, new-mown hay, cherry trees in blossom, fresh and moist air after a summer storm: all these scents at the same time, which did not seem possible.
“My son,” a voice that he thought he recognized said, “come join us, here, by the fountain.”
He focused on the speaker and saw several others standing with him by the fountain, dressed in brilliant white robes, all looking at him. He stood at once, using the staff he still held in his hand, and he moved toward the group of people who had called him. As he walked toward them, he looked more carefully at the wethi who had spoken, and he looked familiar to him, like both his brothers, except his eyes were the same as Delgart’s, while Rokwolf’s eyes. . . . He looked at the wetha next to the wethi who had called him, and saw Rokwolf’s eyes, and his own face, and then he realized that the wetha must be his mother, who died bearing him and Rokwolf, so the wethi must be his father, both looking as young as he was. His mother had tears in her eyes.
“Mother?” he asked, tentatively, “Father? Does this mean I, too, am dead?”
His father was shaking his head, but his mother held out her arms to him, so he rushed toward her, embracing her for the first time.
“I have watched over you,” she sobbed into his ear, “and am proud of the path you have chosen.”
“There isn’t time,” his father said, “he must return soon.”
“Yes,” said another voice he recognized at once as Klare’s father, “you must return to Klare. You must wake her and get her busy, or she will be lost within her own mind.”
“And it will not be easy for you, or your twin,” his father added; his mother said nothing, content to hold him and stroke his hair.
“But I’ve . . . ,” Klaybear began, but his father-in-law cut him off.
“You don’t have time for that,” he said.
“You did what you had to do,” his father added, “so do not blame yourself for what has happened; events are unfolding as they should, but Klare needs you.”
Klaybear tried to laugh, but it sounded like he was choking. “I knew that,” he replied, “that is why Rokwolf must still be with us.”
His father and mother exchanged quick frowns.
“You must heal Klare,” his mother-in-law said.
“But she’s the better healer,” he protested.
“Not for the wounds inflicted upon her,” his father-in-law went on, “only you are capable of healing her, but be warned: if you do not, then corruption will take your place and the world will be destroyed.”
“Do not let her behavior upset you,” his mother noted.
“And do not be surprised when it drives your twin away,” his father added.
“That is as it must be,” his mother went on, “cling to her as tightly as she clings to you; do not let anything, or anyone, come between you. Only then do you have any hope to heal her.”
With these last words of his mother, he felt himself irresistibly drawn away from her, and the others, the light of the place brightening as he moved back into darkness, causing the people and the fountain to fade. As they faded from view, he saw clearly for the first time the other people who were standing behind his parents and his in-laws; one of them, looking like his own image whispered to him: “Heal mother for us,” he said, as Klaybear fell back into darkness and silence.
On Wednesday, Klaybear will be awakened by his twin brother Rokwolf in their sanctuary beneath the ruins of Shigmar. Until then, we remind all that the first two books of this series, Chosen of the One and Staff of Shigmar, are free from Smashwords. Get this book, The Morgle Unmasked, from the links provided. Good reading!
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