The eaters of time, p.55
The Eaters of Time, page 55
“Aye. The angel… the anděl.”
“The very same. Remove her spear and place the žezlo in her grasp, then twist as the clock’s arms twist. You’ll hear a click, then something like the single chime of a small bell. Pull out toward yourself. Not up, mind. Outward. Then step back. She will open to you and show you the way. What’s there is yours now. When you’re ready, remove the žezlo. Do you understand?”
Aedelt cuts in. “It doesn’t matter if you believe, mind you. Only that you understand.”
“I … do.”
Edmund flushes at that particular choice of words, but presses on. “You, erm… You’ve a choice to make. We have … Aedelt? You’d better explain.”
“Mmmm. Kastan, there are forty-nine days. Forty-nine days of the soul, as I’ve no doubt your tutors explained to you. Much of what they say has some agenda behind it. Often it’s little more than well-meaning blather, but there are truths.”
Kastan makes an mmm sound. “I was taught that, when we slip sideways, the dead have forty-nine days to see and say from within the Grey Between. By the end of that time, the spirit has gone on to whatever comes next for it—the hells, the Hallowed Halls, and so on.”
Aedelt nods, brightening. “Yes, indeed. Their shadow begins its journey back to the Sea, from whence we all come. That’s the way of things—or was the way of things. Until Ebistian worked his will. By some foul art, he has taken Edmund’s shadow and given it to another.”
“But … Aedelt, I don’t understand. You said his spirit was taken. Yet here he is. Here you both are…”
Aedelt sighs. “There isn’t time for this. Not for a full explanation.” He pauses, wearing a look of consideration. “The spirit is a painting of all you are and all you know. The shadow is all that you have done and might yet do—all that you’ve created, or might create. It is your sense of force, your experiences, your talents… your time on Skolf. For now, let that be enough.”
Kastan gapes. She can find no words. It’s difficult enough to come to terms with the news Edmund has fallen. To hear now that he and all that he’s seen and done will be… what, erased?
“No… not erased. You said this … Ebistian—he stole your shadow and gave it to another.” She looks from Edmund to Aedelt. “So that means this other now has all of Edmund’s… has Edmund’s…”
“Shadow. Yes. Edmund, I admit to being wrong. She is as keen minded as you said. Lady, Edmund’s shadow is gone. His spirit might make it to the Hallowed Halls, but…”
“But you don’t know that for certain.”
Edmund allows his smile to soften, becoming resigned. “We do not.”
“Then what can we—”
“Nothing, Lady,” says Edmund. “We tell you this so you know the danger of this monster and his following. We tell you so that you at least have some warning. You have something else, as well… or will soon.”
Kastan waits, knowing there must be more.
“You have my son.”
“Your…”
“Andrej,” says Aedelt. “My cousin—my cousin’s son.”
She reels. There’s a vague sensation of tears prickling the corners of her eyes, but distantly, like the chill that runs up the spine at the first whistle of winter winds beyond the shuttered sill.
Andrej… Andrej is your heir… your son. Oh, Edmund… She tries to speak, to offer some word of consolation, but she can’t find her voice. Honor the fire keeper, it must be like losing him all over again. That he lived… that he was here within arm’s reach and… and you never knew…
“It was for him that I called Štít,” Aedelt’s voice grows low and resigned. “I performed that rite while he was still in the womb, though his time was nearing. I knew he still lived, as the hound still walked. But the bond must be consecrated once the child is born. Until then, the power of that bond is limited. Štít lived, so the boy lived. His name? His location? I didn’t know them, and Štít couldn’t do more than gaze in the boy’s vague direction.”
“When did you know?” Her voice finally comes to her. It’s to Edmund she asks the question, though it’s Aedelt who makes reply.
“He didn’t. Had I been able to find him, or even rumor of him, I would have raced to Edmund’s side to give him the happy news. To burden him with what may have been false hope?”
Edmund nods. “I hate you for being wise enough to see it, but it was likely the right decision. I’d have been hard pressed not to spend my every waking moment and each coin in my coffers to search for him. Now he’s beyond my reach, unless…”
He seems to steady himself for a beat, then presses on. “Kastan… I have one final question—one final boon to beg. I ask you to take him and claim him as your heir. To guide him and teach him as best you can. If you feel it’s too much, I’ll understand. Aedelt knows a way that I might remain with him, but…”
Aedelt cuts in, as business-like as before. “It involves drawing Edmund’s spirit into an item—a weapon or piece of well-made jewelry. That sort of thing. The risks? When Edmund reveals himself, or even acts in some way to aid the boy, Andrej may reject him out of fear or disgust. By that point, it will be too late. Edmund would be trapped within the item in question until that item is destroyed. And then? We’ve no idea what becomes of a shadow or its spirit once such a thing happens.” He pauses for a moment, then adds one more log to the bonfire. “And even if Andrej accepts this item, the boy will die one day. When he does, Edmund will remain trapped within the item.”
“I cannot abandon him further. I must ask someone to stand in my stead, or I must take the field, as it were.”
“Stop.” Kastan’s mind flutters from point to point, trying to make sense of it all. “This is more than I need to hear. Edmund, I’ve already told Andrej he’ll remain in and with my household for as long as he likes. I’ve already claimed him. To do as you ask is little more than a step beyond what I’ve already sworn to do. No fear.”
Edmund’s face begins to shimmer. “Kastan, I… I cannot begin to thank you.” He’s smiling through his tears, yes. But he’s also fading. They’re both fading.
“We’ll do what we can, Kastan,” says Aedelt. “We’ll walk with you for as long as we can. Watch for the Shepherd. Watch for Ebistian and word of the Storm Queen…”
But his voice is dim. The grey light is dim. The world is… dim.
Chapter Sixteen
CANDLES ONE BY ONE
-I-
County Thorion
Wick
٥ Korunasykli: ٢٢ Days after the Red Storm at Westsong
Jastar did his best to keep his head clear. The screams and crashes they’d been hearing for the past few minutes of travel made that more than a little difficult. The battle din summoned horrific and miserable images to the stage of his mind’s eye. And while he knew he needed to push such thoughts away, it was against his use to sit idle while Thorion or its people were threatened.
His nose caught wind of a far-too-familiar stench. It was distant, but distinct. He’d been about to say something—to let the column know the cunning little bastards were close—but at that moment, Methias held up a hand to halt their progress.
“Unless I’m very much mistaken, the bend ahead will clear the tree line and bring Wick into view. Sir Jastar?”
He looked at the back of Methias’s head and bit down on his own frustration. The pompous ass can’t even be bothered to turn his damned head when asking a question.
But it wasn’t the discourtesy that was fraying his temper. In truth, it was the man’s calm. And it wasn’t limited to the Lord Methias, either. To Jast’s frustration, most of the folk he rode with wore confirmed countenances that looked more disinterested in the nearby slaughter than disturbed by it.
This whole overstuffed lance appears content to just wait and see how the Falx falls. They all look … bored! Only Pallith seems genuinely concerned about what the lot of us are riding toward.
He knew that wasn’t the case—could not be the case. The sounds of suffering nearby meant obvious trouble, and they’d ridden out at the first rumor of this same trouble. Yet there was this sense…
“Jastar?”
He bowed his head. I’m a fool, Valad. The dancing point of now, I know.
He forced his tone to be easy as he answered the lord. “Aye. Should be the final bend. We’ll catch glimpses through the thinning trees as we close the distance, but we won’t see much until we clear round the corner.”
Methias nodded. “Tharus? Dismount please.”
The Sheshik man did as bidden. Methias wore his usual flat non-expression as he left his brindled mount behind—a mount that wore a halter, Jastar noted, but bore neither bit nor bridle. That was odd.
As Tharus finished walking the few feet forward to stand at Methias’s left side, the lord spoke up again.
“My right hand, if you please.”
Jastar fought and won the battle to avoid rolling his eyes or speaking his frustration aloud at this needless nonsense. That frustration rose another notch a moment later. No sooner had Tharus obliged than Methias spoke up with yet another additional instruction.
“And a few steps onto the grass?” Tharus moved in dutiful silence. When he’d made it a few feet beyond the road’s shoulder, Methias at last gave a satisfied nod. “Good enough. Shield at the ready?”
The man unslung his heater, spread his stance as if to enter combat—though his bright hand was empty—and nodded.
Methias opened and closed his fingers several times as he spoke. “If you finish before I need you to finish, wave your bright arm. Lanbachsel?” He raised his voice at this last.
“Aye, eyes on, Lord.” Apiné’s voice was steady but held a note of anticipation.
“The rest of you, keep watch.” With that, Methias pointed his right forefinger at Tharus’s back. “Puav ang cza zan fi ka. Cza zan ahg hol gryl.” His quiet voice carried with it the cold force of command. From Methias, that tone seemed far too dark somehow.
A brief shimmer showed at Tharus’s feet. Then it was gone. Then he was gone—carried upward without anything between his boots and the pale brown of the moon-brushed soil.
Jastar gaped. He closed his mouth a moment later, but it took an effort. He saw the bearded man scores of feet in the air, stood on nothing but hope and madness, yet supported by whatever invisible force Methias commanded. The Sheshik man stood with his shield toward Wick, gazing in that direction.
All at once, the reality of what was going on struck him. They’re scouting from on high! No archer will find it easy to put a pin in him with that shield in the way, and from there he can see the entire battlefield! Falxes fall… How can Thorion counter … that?
Then another thought—a far more worrisome thought struck him. If they can lift men up so high, can those men not be archers? No field commander would be safe! And if they could be made wide enough, or shaped? Storms be swift, it’s an instant siege tower! One raised with no warning!
Methias’s face was locked in concentration. The muscles of his neck—those that could be seen over his raiment, at any rate—showed a purely physical tension as he bore down on his power. The group sat astride in relative silence for several minutes. Jastar tried in vain to ignore the sounds of screams and sobs in the near distance.
“Down, Lord.” This was red-haired Ghenys.
Jast looked up and had just enough time to see Tharus’s arm waving before the man began to lower.
Apiné spoke up almost before the man had made it to the ground. “Well? What are we facing?”
Tharus walked back to his horse, speaking in his beard-stubble voice as he moved. “Goblins… and something more. The goblins? There are … more than I can count. They swarm like sweet-venoms over a sleeping faun.”
Jast knew those troublesome insects. As a boy, he’d let Gordan and Raegus talk him into joining in with them as they bit the bug. That was what the act was called in the south of Thorion, and it was just as absurd and vile as it sounded. The insects looked like long-legged ants carrying tiny green leaves. Eating the damnable things caused a pleasurable sort of delirium and was said to grant prophetic visions. There were even tales of bug-eaters seeing and speaking with the dead, which was why Jastar had agreed to join in. The more recent the bug’s death, the more vivid the world became. Eating one alive, therefore…
“And what else did you see? Goblins, and…”
“I don’t… I don’t really know, Morric. A strange… light? It’s like someone’s hung a black cloth near the middle of town, then set lanterns close enough to brush it with light? Strange, I admit. But as I say, I don’t…” He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Dannus deliver me,” the Kieran growled. “Are… are they still defending the walls, or have we missed that stage of the siege?”
“No, Xaithrin. The creatures have their run of the walls.”
Zay-thrin? So That’s the bear’s given name. Xaithrin the Kieran, or Xaithrin the whole Kieran. If there’d been any doubt of the man’s heritage, both his given name and his choice of religious interjection laid it to rest. They were as Traeadish as Traeadish could be.
“And your mason’s eye?” Methias spoke in a comfortable voice, as if this were all happening far away, or in some story.
Tharus shook his head, grunting. “A knuckle. A bor knok. It’s three defensible walls of wood attached to a restored stone one. Streets would be a perfect place for a trap, if there’d been time to lay one. Bor knok commands the only approach, and the hill looks steep ‘nough to hold for donkey’s.”
Wait, he’s Traeadish? He looks as if he’s from Shesh! There can’t be too many Sheshik folk in Traead. But donkey’s? I’ve only ever heard that from the Traeadish traders, or their priests. The expression had something to do with how long it would take to load a ship, he thought, though he couldn’t be sure. No matter its origin, its meaning was clear—a long, long time.
Speaking of—Methias sat in silence for what seemed like an age. It was surely no more than a few beats, but it felt like an inordinate amount of time for what should be a simple matter. Everyone else remained silent. Their faces once more wore those expressions of detachment.
Hells, someone say … something. We’re wasting time and paying for that waste in Wickish blood.
As if he’d read the run of Jastar’s thoughts, Methias spoke at last. “Alright. Lanbachsel?”
“Lord?”
“We need… Wait. Tharus, does the township have only the one gate? Sir Jastar? Gilsel Pallith? You’ve both been to Wick. Do either of you know?”
“I’d bet there’s one somewhere in that stone,” said Tharus. “The western wall, I mean. I saw folk fleeing westward from the city, and there was what looked like a small mob near that strange banner-thing.”
Jastar considered. “I’ve been to Wick more than a few times, but only fought there once. I think I recall a postern in the western wall, but I wouldn’t wager lives on it.”
Pallith’s near sing-song voice sounded as if it were delivered through a surprised smile. “No, you’re quite right. There is. All of Wick’s fields are on its northern and western sides. There’s no gate to the north anymore. They tore it down and walled it off once the tower was finished. This was when my father was still a boy. But there is a gate to the west. It’s… what, a bit south of the halfway point Bachsel?” He looked at Tharus, who nodded.
“Thereabouts, aye.”
Methias mulled that over. “Tharus? Did you see any goblins that weren’t pouring into Wick?”
“See, no. There were some shooting at those who fled westward, but the walls or the grasses hid them from me.”
“The rest were on or within the walls?”
Tharus nodded. “Near as I could tell. I would’ve expected fires, but there aren’t many.”
Again, Jastar had to bite back his own frustration at what seemed like overcomplicating matters.
“Lanbachsel? Leave me Gilsel Pallith. Cr ke? You and Sir Jastar will ride in his stead. I’ll need larger melee shields to guard me. Jastar’s jousting shield and your sword won’t be of much use on that score.”
All involved nodded, waiting.
Methias considered for a beat longer, then nodded to himself. “Stay out of sight, but go as swiftly as you can. Ride north.”
“We’re running away?”
As soon as the accusation left Jastar’s lips, he regretted it. Other than Methias—who still hadn’t bothered to turn ‘round—every eye was on him. None of them seemed to echo his concerns. All of them wore looks of either annoyance or disgust at his outburst.
The lord went on as if Jast hadn’t spoken at all. It might’ve been better had he shown at least some pique or frustration, but no. Not even a hint of chilly disdain.
“Tharus, I presume the trees are fairly light this close to the eastern walls?”
“They are.”
Nodding, Methias went on. “Stay as deep as you can, Apiné. Best if they neither see nor hear you till you’re north of the tower.”
“Then we cut west?”
“Then you cut west, as close to the northern wall as you can. Keep one of your number with the horses. The rest? Dismount and move back south, swift and single-file.”
Apiné grinned. “Shields lead the way right up to the postern gate? Then what?”
“Sweep the gate clear and set what defense you can. We’ll give you a few minutes before we ride, but we’ll head west of the walls and should be in position before you’re at the gate.”
Ghenys piped up. “Will we need so many at the gate, Lord?”
Jastar expected someone to glare at the red-haired man for speaking out of turn—to tell him to keep his head-hole buttoned. No one so much as blinked at his interjection. Quite the contrary, both Xaithrin the Kieran and Kujin the Viper were nodding their heads, looking between Methias and Apiné.
