The eaters of time, p.8
The Eaters of Time, page 8
Liška kept his glower focused on Vlk, but spoke over his shoulder to the aged stable master. “No fear, Milan. I von’t let him drag through the rest of his day.”
“Then let him go, Liška. And Vlk, don’t dare dally as ya make yer way, or one of us’ll smart for it.” His father obeyed, at last releasing his grip on Vlk’s shoulder. Milan’s final word caused a look of embarrassed shock to rush onto Liška’s normally dour face. “Tell her Ladyship that I’m happy to make you available to her whenever she likes.”
“I vill tell her vhen I first see her. Můj vdek.” Before his father had time to do more than glare, he’d taken off at a run. Andrej was waiting near the turnoff for Vlk’s house.
“I’ll just run home and grab my svord,” he said. Andrej stopped him with a hand to the shoulder and a shake of the head. “…Vhat?”
“You won’t need your sword today. Besides, if I’m wrong, we have more than you have fingers.”
“Vhy do you have so many vooden svords? Are they for the children back at Lady Kastan’s home? The children of her guards, I mean.” He shrugged and fell into step beside Andrej. He could listen and walk at the same time.
“They’re for practice. Train with the wooden sword to hone skill and form, practice with the metal one to hold on to skill and form.” Vlk must have worn his confusion on his face, for Andrej grinned, albeit kindly, and said a little more. “Ever light a fire?”
Vlk nodded. “’Course. My father taught me vhen ve rode vith Lord Alojz last year. Ve vent along to Hartscross vith him to tend to his horses. My father vanted a fire and didn’t vant to have to be bothered lighting it himself every night, so he taught me. Vhy?”
Andrej had nodded at that, looking wistful. “I’ve never seen Hartscross. I hear it’s big enough to get lost in.” He shook his head. “You… When you make a fire, you need kindling, right?” Vlk nodded. “When you just want to keep a fire going, though, you use actual logs or thick branches.” Again, Vlk nodded. “The work before you fight’s like fires. The wooden sword’s kindling. It gets your fire going, gets your arm and head to do what you want.”
Vlk’s eyes had grown wide, his smile broad. “Ahhh, Pravda!” (True!) “The logs are metal svords—real ones. They keep the fire going… keep the training fresh in your head so your arms don’t forget it… That makes sense.” He elbowed Andrej in the ribs. “See? I vas right!”
Andrej had blinked at that. “About what?”
“You are a kouzelník!” With that, Vlk took off at a dead run. Andrej was close behind, laughing, mock-growling.
They were still laughing as they skidded to a halt before an amused Kastan and half a dozen servant women.
-IV-
Dereek khn
Kor Kowmor
٤ Korunasykli: ٢١ Days after the Red Storm at Westsong
Jastar had risen a touch earlier than usual—five bells past midnight. After finishing his morning exercises, he’d mounted up and hied west. Now he stood next to his pale horse, savoring a draught of the morning’s mild air as he looked back toward the mountains. They were, he was all but certain, a spur of the Frost Fangs. This particular section likely had its own name on some map or other, but he hadn’t ever come across it.
He forced himself to wait. It shouldn’t be much longer, surely…
As he watched, the shy sun glanced out from between two peaks. He turned back to the west, grinning in spite of himself.
There’s Morning’s Gate, at least. I’ve managed not to stray too terribly far off course. Ibhroth had been spot on. The shape made by the two peaks did indeed resemble an open town gate. The sun rose into view in as near as no matter to the dead center, making due east impossible to miss.
He reached up to check his saddle a final time. His mace was still firmly affixed to its dim side. His saddlebags, too, remained in place behind, strapped to a ring beneath its seat. The girth strap hadn’t loosened overmuch, so all was as well as may be. Hooking his dim side foot into the stirrup, he hauled himself up onto the horse’s back and began to ride again.
It was always the horse, or my mare, or the like. If pressed, he was certain he could pull the beast’s name out of his memory, but he’d rarely (if ever) used it. He viewed his relationship with animals as largely transactional and took good care of any he had the keeping of without complaint or malice. His current mare, for example, enjoyed fine food, clean water, regularly-washed saddle blankets, a well-worn, and well-maintained saddle—in short, far more than what was strictly necessary to care for a mount. Still, treat the world well, and most of the time, it’ll treat you well in return.
Jastar liked animals well enough. He’d just never felt any abiding affection for them, as others often seemed to. Not that there had ever been any thought of abuse or neglect. Beyond quieting the petty, fleeting flare of frustration when a toe was crushed or the like, what would be the point?
Abuse is an exercise in pride, Valad had taught them. It’s the act of a wretch trying to convince himself that he’s still in control. In a desperate desire to prevent his self-import from falling off the tower he’s built for it, he lashes out, showing you his weakness.
Setting the rising sun at his back, Jastar rode west, leaning forward in the saddle as they began climbing a low hill.
“And was it pride that took you from us, Sir?” He spoke to no one in particular—not even his horse. Still, he kept his voice soft and small out of habit.
Those thoughts drew him back to that awful night. It was Valad’s duel more than the battle for Westsong that haunted his dreams.
“Yield,” Valad had said. He’d barely sounded winded, even after nearly a full minute of defending against Anden’s withering attacks.
And Anden? Anden was always a beast in steel skin. Despite that well-earned reputation, you bested him … without question. Everyone knew it, and none more so than Anden himself.
The lout’s face had been a mixed mask of desperate calculation and dawning incomprehension. Plainly this was not how he had envisioned that duel’s ending. He should have, but the past was always easier to see, wasn’t it? Valad had still been in fine form. He hadn’t lost so much as a step. Granted, he was old, but what of that?
“Words in haste need not make wounds that fester.” Valad’s voice, like the sword he’d held to Anden’s neck, had been quite steady. “My ego is not so mountainous that I would see us lose a skilled sword-arm out of hand. Come. Yield and I will grant you parole.”
With an effort, Jastar banished the memory. It wasn’t that it was too painful to contemplate… Well, no. He’d do better to admit he was avoiding that particular pain. Here and now, however, dwelling—drowning in that miserable moment served no purpose other than self-indulgence. He would eventually need to let himself grieve properly, but this was not the time for it.
“Keep one eye ever on the dancing point of now,” Jastar said in that same, subdued voice. “That was a favorite of yours, Sir.”
Valad hadn’t repeated the phrase to excess, but there’d been so very many references to it Daydreaming? Blathering at the dinner board over an earlier bout in the sparring ring? “You’re abandoning your dancing partner, boys.”
Beginning archery practice? “Stop thinking about your training, boy. Your arm and eye will recall it without your mind’s interference. Instead of straining yourself trying to remember my words, focus on the dancing point of now.”
Beating either your chest after a victory or your skull against a wall over a recent failure? The answer was the same whether you were bragging about the past or weeping over it. “Eventually, when you’re ready, return from the misty moment of then. Come back to the dancing point of now.”
As he rode, Jastar tried unsuccessfully to push those thoughts away. Finally, he opted for another path. He gave in, heeding Valad’s ghost. As was so often the case, it proved to be the path of least resistance. Resigned, yet somehow still smiling about it, he drew in a breath and held it, refocusing on the moment at hand.
The land which now called itself Dereek khn was, officially, the property of the Thorion Throne. In actuality, it had been held by Her Ladyship and her dusk fae for as long as anyone could recount or recall.
Doubts about that fact are rife the farther south you go, but stood here? The idea that these lands were fae-touched… it’s hard to dismiss.
He shook his head. He couldn’t explain it, not even to himself. These lands were pristine.
No, he thought, that’s drawing it short. Speak the truth and spurn the treasure. These lands are breathtaking. Every game trail, every rounded bend… He smiled, turning his thoughts into something a touch sweeter, recalling a snippet of song he’d heard someone—probably Rahn—sing. Every waterfall and forest glen, a perfect, purple passing while my love, she is away.
This place created a haunting sense that the memory of green had long ago faded from true. Being here, seeing such utter vibrance felt like… like you’d only ever had green described to you… As if you were only now seeing it for the first time. It wakened something—a forgotten portion of the heart, or perhaps the mind, which had slept for far too long.
A year a’gone, this had been a place of monsters and living cradle-tales. Those days at least appeared to be over now. Certainly, there’d been no rumor of the Lady of the Shivering Song or her court. Not since last year’s Long Moon. This year’s would come in a scant few days, and here was he, Jastar—Sir Jastar of Knell’s Stone, sleeping north of the Shivering March, and—
He stopped himself, reining up as his mare crested the hill.
“The dancing point of now, Sir. Aye? The dancing point of…” He trailed off, taking in the vista before him. “…now.”
Below, perhaps half a mile distant, a conifer grove spilled across the grassy landscape. If he had to give an accurate description of its size—and he knew that he very well might—he would’ve called it just to the right of modest. Beyond the dark and lovely trees, he saw the unmistakable outline of a broad defensive wall in a vast rectangle. The sun was behind him, and while he wasn’t accounted especially keen-eyed, his vision was quite clear.
“Aye, the dancing point … of now.” He drew another deep, focusing breath, held it, and let his eyes take in the construction. After a moment, he let himself breathe normally once more. “Stone pillars at regular points… stone troughs running between them with… Those must be timbers.”
He lowered his head, trying to concentrate, despite the distraction of the wind shaking the treetops below. Their movement did its best to cause a thrill of wonder to well up in him. Jastar, in turn, did his best to ignore it. The trees were most assuredly not beckoning him on, no matter how inviting their shade seemed.
“That’s smoke.” He could smell it, now. How had he missed that? Given the hour, the tag end of the morning meal should be going on, unless the fortification’s lord preferred a leisurely end to his night’s fast. As close as Jastar was, he should have smelled the smoke before now, surely. Had he been that distracted?
“Well, nevermind.” He shook his head, beginning to urge the horse forward again when something stopped him. All at once he smelled the mingled scents of pine and hemlock. His eyes began watering.
Scents? Those weren’t scents! They were screams… screams that only the nose could hear. His eyes weren’t simply watering, they were gushing! His head felt full, as if he had a summer cold. He tried to blink his vision clear, but after a moment, he gave that up, wiping at his streaming eyes like a child.
The horse had started forward again. He must’ve squeezed his knees as he tended to his dreamer’s lamps. He reined up anew, not wanting to ride blind. Blessedly his horse seemed not to mind. He felt her lean her head down, cropping contentedly while she waited for the signal to proceed.
Refocusing took him a moment. He could see again, though his eyes still threatened to water. With an effort, he managed to get this reaction under control. Still, he felt a powerful mixture of woe and wonder, though he couldn’t credit either.
Below him, caught in the strong wind, lay that lovely grove. The fort rested just beyond.
“Wait… no.” He squinted. The trees were most assuredly not caught in the strong wind. They couldn’t be. There was no strong wind… was there?
No… the wind’s all but dropped. Even the grasses are mostly still. What in the hells?
As he watched, each tree appeared to writhe at a different speed and in a different direction from its nearest neighbor. The sound of pine song rose high and shrill. It carried to his ears like whispers in a stone hall. It sounded like…
“Screams!” He drove his heels into his mare’s flanks, snatching up the reins as he did so. Surprised, quite happy to leave whatever had startled her rider behind, she bolted hells bent for pudding down the hillside.
The strange screams sounded at once louder and more distant as he rode on. He’d ridden half the span between the hilltop and the tree line when the strange screams reached a crescendo. The sound seemed to rise as it swelled. He couldn’t keep from following its progress with his eyes. There was nothing visual to it, save the trees’ unnatural shaking, yet he found he couldn’t look away.
The sound didn’t so much die away as it … ceased. It had swelled, risen, then … ceased. Adding to this sense—underscoring it—was the somehow horrific realization that in that same instant, the trees had grown still. It called to mind the finality of a slamming door or the implacable fall of a headsman’s axe.
He reined up, scanning the area for… he wasn’t sure. Something, surely. Birdsong? Aye, small and far, but it’s there and growing louder. As he sat in the saddle, the song was joined by other birds, then squirrels. Finally, as if signifying that whatever had been happening was truly over, he heard the mewing rustle of—he’d swear to it—a moss cat.
The world appeared to have been holding its breath. As forest song rose once more, the tension at last began to fade. Jastar felt both his jaw and his bright hand relax. He recalled balling the latter into a fist but had no memory of tightening the former.
The moss cat mewed again. The rasping melody made him smile, even as it made him shiver. It sounded like a large and particularly musical house cat was moving through distant underbrush. The sound was getting closer, too.
He urged his mare forward, hoping to catch a glimpse of the creature. He’d seen only one before, in his fourteenth year, among an overgrown and long-forgotten church yard.
I was ranging with Sir Valad… One of the few times I’d gotten to ride out alone with him. Where were we? Hyrro Hill! That was its name. He smiled as the sweet air of memory blew across him. “Falx-fire! I haven’t thought about that place in years…”
Jastar’s mare perked her ears forward, whickering as if in response—almost as if she were genuinely happy for him.
He’d allowed her to set the pace, and she’d settled on a slow, easy one. As the velvet rumble of her voice fell silent, however, she stopped altogether. An instant later, he thought he understood why. His own thoughts weren’t just cut off, they were obliterated as his eyes fell upon the creature.
It was one of those perfect cradle-tale moments. The moss cat was seated on her haunches in a small clearing. She’d been caught in a shaft of sunlight slanting down through the trees. The size of a young wolf, her coat was a shifting mass of pale moonlight that darkened to the color of summer grass. Her eyes were silver stars tossed on soft seas of green. She regarded him with naked curiosity.
At first, he could only stare, mouth open in a slack-jawed expression of delight. Slowly, however, he felt the intrusion of actual thought. He tried to push it away. Whatever it was, it could wait, surely. Seeing her there, perfectly framed in the sun, surrounded by the dim forest… It was a memory he would surely keep with him for years to come. He would tell his grandchildren about it: The day the world held its breath, and he saw Paníandil, herself.
Wait, what? She? A fair guess, but it could just as easily have been a tomcat. He was certainly no expert. And Paníandil? Where had that come from? He was certain he’d never heard it before. Was he reaching back to some shred of forgotten memory? It certainly felt like a word in a Venzene dialect, but… No, the official name for the moss cat’s … Makh-something, I think. It’s Lesalunth, isn’t it?
Valad had told him what little he’d known about them on the ride back to Knell’s Stone. That day had been a jumble of firsts for him. He tried to pour through what he could remember, but it all came dangerously close to memories of Valad. As he tried to untangle the promise of that long-ago day from the pain of more recent ones, another thought struck him.
…A shaft of sunlight? He looked back behind him. Yes, it was indeed just past sunrise. Looking back at the moss cat, there was no mistaking it. There she sat in a soft pillar of sunlight which was spilling down around her from overhead, at a slight angle.
“…How?” It was all he could think to do.
A thought brushed past his mind’s ear like a distant whisper. Machové Mačky.
No sooner had he registered the words than he recalled them from his ride with Valad. He’d had trouble pronouncing the strange words.
“Makh!” Valad’s voice came back to him like a cold rain on a burning summer day. “Makh-ho-vay Mah-ch-key. That’s what they were first called by man. They’re fae, of course, so they must have names of their own, but that was the first one man ever recorded. You’re lucky to have set eyes on one by day.”
“I know!” He’d been absolutely taken by the creature. It’d come out when I started humming to myself. I turned and there it was atop an old headstone, all blue and silver…
Jastar was forced back to the present—the dancing point of now—by a strange, looping growl from the creature. Looking up sharply, he could see that she wasn’t at all alarmed or angry. She sat there, just as she had thus far. The only mark of difference was that her chin was lifted slightly as if she were projecting.
