The eaters of time, p.27
The Eaters of Time, page 27
“That’s fine, Alwyn. Thank you.” That’s the velvet voice of Lord Jannon. It occasionally squeaks, but only on certain sounds. Laughter is a common culprit. At fifteen or sixteen, young Lord Jannon Saysh laughs easily and often. He’s two, perhaps as many as three years older than Methias, but he carries himself in a way that makes him seem much older. “If you’d be good enough to keep—”
“Aye, young master. No fear. I sh’ll see that no one disturbs your talk with the boy.”
Methias vacillates between rage, relief, and shame. He doesn’t want Jannon here, because Jannon will try to stop his plans. He desperately wants Jannon here to do exactly that—to make him stay. Then there’s the shame. Shame of spurning the gifts and good fortune that Jannon has lavished upon him these past few days. Shame that he didn’t leave sooner, one way or another. Shame that he’s been too much a coward to do what he knows he ought to have done from the first—either go back to Nausha and turn himself in, or… or…
The wind whispers once more, adding to his sense of panic. It isn’t the soft sound of voices carried up from the walled town below. It’s at once more urgent and more ethereal than that. He knows he isn’t hearing whispers from some unseen entity, but there’s a sort of cathartic attraction to the idea. It isn’t impossible, of course. The world is full of what fools call the supernatural. And it would be such a relief if something—if someone was calling him. He knows it’s only wishful, childish thinking. He deserves every drop of fear and pain the world sees fit to throw at him. But oh, how blessed a thing it would be if someone would step in to tell him what to do—tell him how to properly pay for his part in… in Emil’s…
Footsteps on the stairs behind him. They pause before they reach the top. He can hear their muted echo bounce against the stairwell’s near-claustrophobic walls. Perhaps Jannon is looking around. Perhaps he’s collecting his thoughts?
It doesn’t matter. Methias draws a breath and forces his spine to straighten, not turning to look at the handsome youth.
“You look as if you’re ready for it.” The voice is easy—cautious, but playful.
“For what, Lord?” Methias doesn’t mean to speak. Hells, why had he spoken?
Jannon’s voice takes on a slightly exaggerated formality. “Let this be the last blow you ever receive unanswered…” He pauses for a beat before continuing in his earlier timbre. “The final moment of a knighting ceremony—the last moment you stand unbelted.”
“Un…”
“…Belted. It’s what we call those who haven’t been recognized as knights. They’re fighting men, of course… or fighting women, though they’re rare enough. In either case, being able to fight isn’t the same as being called to serve as a knight. Such aspiring folk are unbelted fighters.”
Methias feels his mind opening, as if trying to eat the young lord’s words like a meal. New knowledge has always been an easy lure for him. He resists the impulse to begin asking questions.
No more excuses. No more … distractions.
“I’m neither of those.” His voice comes out flat—almost monotone.
Jannon laughs at this. The sound is gentle, and while it is at Methias’s less-than-astounding observation, it isn’t at his expense.
Still chuckling, Jannon takes the final steps up onto the belfry’s alure and begins walking toward him. Methias stiffens.
“What is it?” The older boy sounds as if he’s stopped mid step. His easy laugh’s been replaced by a note of clear concern that’s hard to hear.
“Nothing. I just want to…”
“Want toooo…?”
“Be alone, my lord. I wish to be left alone.”
“You’ve been left alone for half a bell—ever since you and Caden had your little tussle. Surely that’s enough time to brood.”
Still stood with his back to the new arrival, Methias runs his tongue out over his lower lip. It’s swollen from where the shorter boy—Caden—punched him nearly a full bell back up the hourglass. He tastes the metallic flavor of blood and feels a bitter little smile crawling into position. He’d let his mask slip and mocked Caden for not knowing how to read. Most children his age are illiterate, unless their apprenticeship requires the skill, but Methias’s derision had been relentless. He’d courted this pain—bought and paid for it. Even now he finds himself pleased in a dour way he doesn’t himself fully understand.
“I’ll be down soon, my lord. Please. Just leave me be.”
“No… No, I think you’d best come down with me. We’ll go to the hall together.” His voice is closer now—just behind. How Jannon’s moved so silently is a mystery Methias refuses to focus on. He shakes his head in equal parts confusion and negation.
Jannon lets the silence spin out for a moment—or at least what he no doubt thinks of as silence. Methias hears the ghostly, breathy sound of a piper, a bird he’s always loved. The song is mixed with that of other birds and the shrill, somehow plaintive sound of the wind over the angles of tiled roofs, stone walls, wooden fences. He even hears the massive rope that holds the great bell begin to creak and sway behind him.
A hand falls on his shoulder, causing him to jolt as he recoils. He teeters, falling forward. Feeling every nerve scream against Skolf’s pull as it rushes up to meet him, he has a single, shining thought.
Good. Good, it’s over.
As Methias’s fall forward reaches the point of no return, he can feel Jannon’s hand slide from his shoulder. The young lord does manage to grab a fist full of both his cloak and the haversack beneath it, though. An instant later, Methias feels himself yanked backward. The motion isn’t physically painful, though it does force his feet back onto the heavy wooden floorboards. The sense of loss, of yet one more failure to add to his seemingly endless list, is another matter entirely.
“No! No, let me go! Let me! Let…” Is he weeping? It doesn’t matter. “It was over! Let it be over! Jannon please! I just want it to be over!”
The space of a single step separates him from his prize—an end to the empty feeling of loss to his shame at having fled his master’s house when he should’ve stayed to fight, to his rage at his powerlessness… his own cowardice.
He’s disoriented as Jannon spins him around, crushing him to his chest. Jannon makes no noise—offers no words. For a moment of frozen time, Methias is simply held. The embrace has a somehow implacable gentility to it that he knows… he knows he’s unworthy of.
He moves to shove himself free. When that fails, he stomps on the young lord’s booted feet, kicks him, tries to punch his ribs—anything to make him let go. He screams, but the sound is muffled against Jannon’s chest. Finally, he has no fight left in him. Sobbing, his body shaking with days of pent-up guilt, grief, and—he will later reflect—gratitude for the kindness he’s been shown, Methias breaks. He throws his arms around his silent savior, and at last begins to grieve for Emil’s death.
When he quiets, no longer clinging to Jannon quite so desperately, he becomes aware of fingers combing through his hair. He has no words for it, but he’s more grateful for the kindness—for the contact—than any words could convey.
“Will you tell me your tale now, Lamlith?”
Unwilling to let go, Methias turns his face up to regard him. His eyes are wide with both fear and incomprehension. He’s terrified at having to relive it—at the thought of how Jannon will react when he learns the truth. The incomprehension is simpler. He doesn’t know the word Jannon used to address him.
He must be wearing his confusion, for Jannon smiles down, leaning back in order to look him in the face. “It means little fire.”
“Oh.” That’s all Methias can say.
“Would it help if I told you I already know some of it? That nobody will find you here… well, nobody with any authority, at any rate?”
“I… My…” Methias starts to struggle again, trying to free himself, but stops almost instantly. He shakes his head, then bows it. “What will you do to me?”
“To you?” Jannon laughs in that easy way he has—the way that makes it hard not to laugh along. “I’m going to torture you with food and a safe place to sleep, warm clothes and a warm bed, and time.”
“Time?”
“Time, Lamlith.” He nods, looking for and finally meeting Methias’s eyes. “I can’t unmake whatever’s really happened to you, but I can give you time to make peace with it… to learn whatever you can from it. There’s a price, mind you, but I can give you that”.
“What… what price?” He can feel his heartbeat. He’s exhausted physically, mentally, and emotionally, but he hasn’t lost his ability to feel fear.
Jannon’s laugh is brief, soft, and gentle. “Honesty, Lamlith. You have to be honest with me and with yourself. That doesn’t mean you have to tell me all of it. It just means you mustn’t lie about anything.” He smooths Methias’s hair back. “Can you? Will you pay that price?”
Methias doesn’t answer. He can’t. He’s too overwhelmed. Instead, he swallows hard, eyes brimming over. Laying his head against Jannon’s chest once more, he shudders in the wake of a new sensation… relief.
-III-
Dereek khn
Yrxa Castle
٥ Korunasykli: ٢٢ Days after the Red Storm at Westsong
Methias sat in mute absorption as the scene faded. He looked straight ahead from his perch on the couch, but saw none of what lay before him.
His face was wet, and he tasted iron as his heart began to slow. He needed no mirror to show him how pale he was. He could feel the color slowly creeping back up his shoulders and neck as he forced a swallow.
Gradually, he became aware of their eyes. Every skull caught in The Cage’s confines was staring. They had no expressions, of course, but he had the sense that more than a few of them looked upon him with some degree of pity, or at least empathy.
It was Sleara who broke the silence at last. His voice had that uneven, almost smiling tone that was usually associated with slow, steady tears.
“How long ago was that?”
“Ten years?” Methias’s own voice had come out breathy, and a bit shaky.
“And … did you tell him?”
Methias offered a chuffing little laugh. “I did. That very night I told him all of it.”
“And did he… How did he take the… the all-of-it?”
Methias was still smiling, though his head was now lowered so that he gazed at the stony floor. He rubbed his eyes, looking—he had no doubt—like a child who’d just woken from a nap. Or one who’s finally stopped crying. No reason to be embarrassed by it, is there?
No, he supposed there wasn’t. But it’d been strange. We talk of reliving the past, but we usually mean either recreating it, or facing a vivid memory of it. This was more like actually returning to it.
“Methias?”
“You saw it all, did you?”
“Mmhmm.”
“So The Cage doesn’t just let you show me, then.”
Sleara took a long time to answer. When he finally did, his tone was sheepish and halting—still through a throat full of tears, though they sounded different somehow. “I… yes. I should’ve told you. Lósgífel used it to truly see what her prisoners or her subjects saw.” He paused for a few beats. When Methias made no reply, he spoke again. This time, he sounded fearful as well as apologetic. “Methias, I didn’t not tell you on purpose! I… I…”
His voice faded, becoming resigned. “No, that’s a lie. I did keep it from you. I didn’t want you to find out about the power! I was afraid that if you saw how useful we could be… how keeping us here would help you…” He fell silent again, but only for a moment. “Methias, please—say… something.” His voice was a terrified whisper now.
“Forgive me. Still trying to find my… my feet.” He looked up and picked Sleara’s skull out of the overall gloom, flashing a sad little smile at him. “I understand why you kept your own counsel on this specific use of The Cage. Mind you, I don’t think you needed to.”
“I… I trust you, Methias. I do, but—”
Methias shrugged his brows, then shook his head. “It isn’t a matter of trust. You were right to be guarded. We’ve only just met today, after all.”
“I don’t understand, then. What did you mean I didn’t need to?”
“I saw everything. I was in the memory as if it were happening now. It wasn’t me remembering that day in Ad Eniddia.” He paused, as if gathering his thoughts. “It was me reliving it, moment by moment.”
“I don’t… What do you mean?”
“When you took me to Rímhril, I saw and heard the world as it was at that time, on Rímhril. I felt the world here, in The Cage. I felt my feet on the stony floor, wasn’t affected by Rímhril’s wind or temperature, nor could I smell the sea.”
“Alright?”
“When I was back at Ad Eniddia—at the Last Bell, I was back at the Last Bell. I was nearly thirteen, full of guilt and fear, loss and shame, and at the same time completely empty. I didn’t want to die. I just didn’t want to be alive anymore. This wasn’t a memory of something a decade ago. It was in the now, for me—real, and miserably present. Do you see? I’ll need to test the theory, but I think it would work irrespective of you and the others being imprisoned here.”
“Oh,” said Sleara, and said no more.
Methias sighed through a smile. “I mean to free the lot of you, Sleara … one way or another. This discovery changes nothing as far as that goes.”
“Oh!” Now he sounded hopeful. “This doesn’t mean…”
“It does not.” Methias’s smile softened. “I’m sorry I didn’t make that clearer sooner. As I say—I’m still trying to recover my wits.”
“It’s fine.” Sleara paused, but only for the briefest of beats. “How did…”
He trailed off, apparently unsure how to return to the earlier subject.
“Jannon, you mean? He took it far better than I could’ve hoped. He took me in, helped me heal, and kept me in his counsels for…” He felt the warmth of new tears racing one another down his face. “For many years.”
“But you told him all of it? You told him what you did, and he didn’t… he didn’t care?”
Methias shook his head, still smiling. “I told him all of it, yes. I’d hardly say he didn’t care, though. He helped me unknot it all—helped me find my way back.”
“But… but you killed your master! That didn’t matter to Lord Jannon?”
Methias winced at the accusation. He felt a strong desire to glare at Sleara’s skull—perhaps to spit some verbal venom at him in base retaliation. He resisted this knee-jerk reaction. Instead, he tried to force himself out of the quagmire that’d been holding his mind. To his relief, he found it no more difficult than crawling out of a comfortable bed. It took effort, but was nowhere near the inner-battle he’d expected.
“What… What’s wrong? Why do you look like that?” Sleara … afraid now. “What did I say?”
Methias shook his head. “I blamed myself for a very long time. I carried that with me like a sickness wherever I went—whatever I did. I can’t absolve myself of all of it. Certainly, there are things I might’ve done differently, but that can always be said, can’t it?” His tone made the question rhetorical. He became aware of a watchful stillness in the air—in The Cage. Still, he resisted the urge to shift his gaze away from Sleara.
“I don’t… What do you…” Sleara’s voice strove to maintain some sort of calm cohesion. Predictably, this only resulted in it jagging up and down, in and out as he tried to master his emotions.
“Jannon helped me see the truth, eventually. When I was ready for it.”
“What… What truth?” Sleara’s voice became small, now. It was the sort of sound it was easy to ignore or overlook, if one had a mind to do either.
“I was convinced, as I say, that I’d killed Emil, or at least caused his death. I was sure that I should’ve stood at his side when they came, or stayed to fight once he’d fallen. I’d proven an apt pupil, taken easily to the Weave, after all. Failing that, I should’ve stayed to make report on the men who’d snuck into my master’s small tower. If I’d needed to run, I should’ve run to one of the Astunomía—our constabulary on Nausha. I should’ve let them sort the matter.”
“Why didn’t you? Why were you so scared too?”
“Instinct?” Methias chuckled, but there was little mirth in it. “I knew the man I’d found standing over Emil’s body. I also hadn’t seen him deliver the killing blow, and he was well known, and well respected.” Methias shook his head. “I was a boy—just an apprentice who’d seen the aftermath, not the act itself. What could I possibly do? Who would listen to my word over his, and that of the men with him? The night Emil died, I only knew that I had to run. I nearly got caught, too, but luck was with me.” He laughed a bitter, bemused little laugh. “Mind you, I wasn’t able to put any of that into words until days later when I was alone… when I was hungry, cold, and half-mad in the wilds of Thorion County.” He shook his head again. “In any event, Jannon helped me to heal—helped me work through all of it until I was finally clear-headed enough to see.”
The room fell quiet for a longish moment. When Sleara finally broke the silence, his voice was thoughtful—perhaps even hopeful.
“See … what?”
Methias had been allowing his mind to wander as it pleased. It took him a beat to reconnect to the conversation at hand. When he did, his smile shone out jewel-bright. “That I was more than capable of a great many things. I wasn’t some useless, foolish lump just because I was young. I also wasn’t a match for the situation I’d found myself in. I was a boy of twelve. A boy with a good grasp of the Weave, but a boy, nonetheless. I couldn’t have defeated the men in our tower, as at least one of them was a much more experienced caster than I. And he was surrounded by at least one apprentice and several fighting men.”
