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Post by Nedward Underhill on Nov 8, 2008 19:23:30 GMT -6
A GATHERING STORM
A working manuscript.
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Post by Nedward Underhill on Nov 10, 2008 0:21:05 GMT -6
Chapter 1
“Come on! Don’t do this to me. Move!”
Borelin heaved, trying to force four hundred hairy pounds of stubborn boloc through the barn door in front of them. The idiot beast put its head down, locked its legs, and refused to budge. Inside the low shelter, Borelin could hear the rest of the herd shuffling about, eyeing the door. It had been a gruelling afternoon gathering them in early, and the weathered farmer’s patience was long past exhausted.
“Come on, Hettie!” he grunted, shifting position to the side of the low-slung beast, while keeping a tight grip on her. Hettie swung her head to the side and regarded him suspiciously.
Due to the daily traffic of the beasts into and out of the barn, the snow at the doorway was hardpack and ice. Not only did Hettie have about one hundred and fifty pounds on her owner, her splayed hooves dug into the frozen ground almost as if someone had taken a massive hammer and spiked her into place. She was a full-sized specimen, some fifty-odd inches girth and fully half a man’s height at the withers. The only sign that it took any effort at all for her to resist him was the steaming jets of breath puffing from her muzzle.
“Get…in!” Leaning forward, Borelin wrapped his arms around her hairy belly and brought his full weight down upon her, wrestling furiously. Hettie responded with a frightened snort and lurched away, dragging him off balance. Borelin’s feet slipped on the ice and he fell hard on one knee, sending a sharp shock of pain up his leg. That was all it took. Hettie, sensing her opportunity, burst away. To make matters worse, as Borelin’s right arm slipped up the far flank of the beast, his hand became tangled in her shaggy hair. He was literally dragged several feet over the snow away from the barn door. With a bellow, Hettie ripped free and raced off several yards in a wild panic of pain and fear. Borelin lay in the snow, torn between nursing his throbbing leg and his wrenched arm. A moment later he heard a thunder of hooves behind him and, with a sickening feeling in his stomach, looked up to see all of the rest of the bolocs lumbering out of the barn and to freedom. With a defeated moan, he lowered his head back down to the ground.
Though tempted to leave the bolocs to their fate, Borelin knew he couldn’t afford it. If he didn’t get the beasts inside they’d likely all be frozen solid before it cleared. With a grunt, he dragged himself up and stood catching his breath.
In his mid thirties, Borelin was a solidly built man of just over six feet tall. He brushed the snow off his bulky frame with large, scarred, hands. The hood of his fur-lined leather jacket was pushed back revealing a bearded face surrounded by a matted tangle of straw-coloured shoulder-length hair. His facial features were stubborn and unyielding; a heavy brow, strong prominent nose, and deep-set green-grey eyes. He absently wiped a sheen of sweat from his face with the back of his forearm, then shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed out over the frozen plain.
Still no sign of the boy.
The storm was headed their way all right. Off on the horizon, the clear blue sky suddenly faded into a dark dangerous haze. The wind had already picked up, and could be seen lifting and blowing waves of snow across the landscape, like advance troops preparing for the arrival of the battalion. The sky overhead was clear of birds and silent but for the whistle of the wind; never a good sign.
In any event, Borelin wasn’t about to take any chances. He figured that they had maybe three hours before it hit, and everything needed to be locked up and tied down before then, including the damn bolocs. As for his young charge, Rook would get the backside of Borelin’s hand when he came home. With the both of them herding the surly beasts in, the job would have been done in minutes. Left to get them in his own, rounding them up was near impossible.
“So, Rook, when you saw the storm coming, what exactly were you thinking, staying out when a storm was coming in?” he muttered, playing out the conversation in his mind. “No that’s right…you weren’t thinking, were you?”
Now that he wasn’t exerting himself, the biting cold was starting to burn his skin. Borelin stomped over and retrieved his mitts from where he had tossed them aside, along with the fat wooden paddle he used to swat the beasts along. Nothing for it but to start all over again. The group hadn’t gone far. Maybe a dozen yards off they stood together, casually furrowing the snow-packed ground in their incessant search for food. Bolocs were well adapted to the cold climate. Their slow-slung bodies were protected both by a thick layer of fat as well as a blanket of long coarse hair that hung down to the ground at their feet. Their thick necks were incredibly strong, and the Sky Father had blessed them with a single horn on the end of their muzzle, which they used to dig through the snow to find grass and vegetation. While domesticated and generally non-aggressive, that horn could also be used as an effective weapon, as Borelin had discovered to his detriment years ago. Attempts to harness the beasts had been largely unsuccessful on account of their stubborn, unruly disposition, but they produced milk while weaning, and made good eating. Their temperament also meant that most folks couldn’t, or weren’t willing to raise them, which meant that it was a good cash crop for someone like Borelin. He currently kept about a dozen of the beasts. Hettie and two others were ready for market, and had been for some time.
Pushing his hood back over his face, Borelin set back to work getting them in again. Rook had, against Borelin’s instruction, come up with names for them, and unfortunately they had stuck. Now he found himself grunting out Rook’s pet names as he shooed them along: “Come on, Annie. Shoo along, Colleen. No…no…not that way. Hey. Bella…Hey! Come on, come on. Hettie, don’t you start with me again…”
The farm stood alone on the plain, and other than the odd copse of trees and slight rise here or there, provided a virtually unobstructed view on all sides. Borelin had built it himself, by hand, over the last ten years. It was composed of three small buildings, barn, house and shed, surrounded by a barrier fence hammered into the frozen ground in a rough circle. All of the buildings were A-frame log structures in the local style, with interiors dug into the ground for warmth and protection.
Herding the unwieldy mass required concentration, but Borelin could not help repeatedly looking up to scan the horizon as he worked. Where was that boy? Surely he was not fool enough to be blind to the coming storm. How many times had they talked about basic safety? What more could he do to make the point clear? But there continued to be no sign of him, and each time Borelin went back to the task at hand with a darker scowl on his face and a heavier hand on the paddle.
Borelin had spent the last ten years keeping the lad’s existence a secret. This wasn’t easy. Rook had a terrible case of wanderlust, and was perpetually disappearing for hours on end. Sometimes he’d run off in the morning and Borelin wouldn’t see him again until after dark. Borelin didn’t like it, but he knew it was hard on the lad, growing up alone. Borelin had done his best to raise him up properly, but he wasn’t a particularly articulate or affectionate man. Most of the time, he wasn’t sure that he even knew how to raise the lad. So, mostly out of guilt, he hadn’t clamped down on Rook’s habit of wandering off, figuring that the boy needed some small pleasure. He took some comfort from the fact that the farm was alone in the remote north, miles from the nearest town. Still, he could not help worrying.
Mercifully, after about forty-five minutes or so, the bolocs obliged him. Maybe it was his dogged perseverance that wore them out, but more likely it was the fact that the conditions outside were rapidly deteriorating. Around his mouth, Borelin’s moustache and beard frosted into a clump of ice and his eyelashes increasingly stuck together. The temperature continued to drop and the wind shifted from a whistle to a muted howl. Borelin wondered if he had overestimated how long he had before the onset of the storm’s front.
He was working against time now, as the sheets of snow buffeted the farm. The shutters on the windows of the house began to whip back and forth, and Borelin carefully clambered up the roof to tie them down before they were ripped off or did damage to the house. From that vantage point he turned back and squinted into the wind for a sign of Rook, but the visibility was already poor. With the coming darkness and the blowing snow, he could barely see past the fence ringing the property. Fool boy! When he dragged his sorry hide home he would get a beating he wouldn’t soon forget.
Next it was off to the workshop, to drag in a few items and batten the place down. As he tromped up, the heads of the sled dogs came up, and four sets of mismatched eyes calmly observed him. After everything was away and the door braced and hooked shut, he checked on them. They were silverbacks; famous for their power, survivability, and endurance. Their wide, tusked, faces sat low to the ground, giving them an unruly and brooding appearance. Indeed, in the wild they were known to be fiercely determined predators that could harry prey for days on end without tiring. Domesticated, they made steadfast and dependable work dogs.
Borelin had learned from past experience that they would be happier outside, even in a storm. With their long fur coats, they were perfectly capable of surviving temperatures that would kill most other creatures. Not that they would face the cold. Silverbacks had the unique ability to shut their bodies down completely. They could remain in this death-like state for days if necessary, neither eating nor breathing. Once the storm hit, they would just hunker down, close their eyes, and let the snow cover them over like a blanket. When it cleared, Borelin would dig them out and find them no worse for wear. A hemp rope chained them together in a long line. He tested to make sure it was firmly secured to the iron hoop affixed high up on the front of the house. The bright coloured ribbons tied all along its length whipped frantically about in the blustering wind.
It was done. The farm was ready for the storm. And not a minute too soon, as a sheet of biting snow crashed into him with such force that his arms reflexively came up to protect himself. It was a bad one all right. The storm was already dangerous, and it hadn’t even really hit yet. There was zero visibility, and the force of the wind threatened to lift him off the ground. Local custom referred to nasty blizzards like this as “snow giants,” and the name was easy to understand. It advanced across the plain like a rampaging monster. When the real force of the storm arrived, anything in its path could be smothered with ten feet of snow in an instant. Anything not tied down would be grabbed and violently tossed hundreds of yards into the air like a giant’s plaything. This gathered debris, which could include rocks, broken branches, or even entire trees up by the roots, would become projectile weapons in the hand of the brutal winds. Borelin stood fuming, unable to take himself inside. Without any more work to distract him, he could not keep his rising fear at bay any longer. Somewhere out there Rook, a slight boy of ten, was trapped in the clutches of the storm.
At the front of the main house a small braced roof projected over the descending stairs inside and provided a little cover. Borelin stood on the stairs and his gloved hand on the door handle, unsure what to do. Sheets of white poured over the walls on the stairs’ sides and whipped around his boots. The level-headed side of him knew it would be madness to venture out now. Like as not, he would only manage to get himself killed looking for the lad. Besides, how could he find anything in the blinding snow? Even without the other real dangers of the blizzard, he wouldn’t be able to see ten feet in front of his face. As if to emphasize the point, the storm whipped another vicious gust at him, snapping the hood off his face and temporarily blinding him. But try as he might to stop them coming, visions of Rook lost and battered by the raging snow pressed into Borelin’s mind. It was agonizing to know that he was helpless but still feel like Rook needed his help. Possibly the lad was even now desperately trying to make it home, blindly trudging around in circles.
Borelin cast his mind back to that morning, trying to think of anything that might help him. Where had Rook said he was going? When the day had broken, the sky had been clear and crisp. As was so often the case, there was no warning that the weather would turn, no sign that they were in for trouble. A bright cascade of light had shone down from the upper windows, and Borelin had decided to cook up a big breakfast for the two of them. He clattered about at the fireplace, and soon the heavy smells of frying bacon, grilled potatoes and onions, and warm toast had filled the house. Rook had bounded out of bed in great spirits, but had barely touched his breakfast, merely grabbing a handful of bacon off the table and running out the door. Borelin had called after him, telling him to put the bacon back and saying he would burn his hands. To be honest, though, he was mostly just disappointed that his meal plans had been so casually discarded by the lad. His command hadn’t made the slightest impact. As Rook shoved his feet into his boots, he had said something about how ‘the eggs were sure to hatch’ and how he didn’t want to miss it. That was it! Now Borelin remembered.
Rook was always climbing. He climbed the house, he found boulders that needed climbing – if it was tall enough to be a challenge, Rook was sure to be climbing up and down upon it. There were a few sunvane trees around the property, and Rook could be counted on to know the exact location of each one. As the lad grew, Borelin could usually find him risking his neck, clambering up one of them to just look off into the distance. As was common for the warm, slow-growing variety, most were short and squat, but there was a large specimen about a half-mile off, sitting up on a low rise. It must have stood three times the size of a grown man, and its trunk was at least five feet across at its base. It was a gnarly old survivor; its bark was thick as armor and scarred from innumerable storms. When the sun was out, each of its broad black fans, or vanes, spread open to more than an arms-length across to gather the sun’s light and convert it into stored heat. So much heat, in fact, that on a clear day a small patch of earth lay exposed around its roots. A few months back, Rook had found an ellit’s nest in the tree, and inside the nest, a treasure. Two eggs. The lad had run all the way back to the farm to tell Borelin, and the two of them had gone off to check it out. Sure enough they were the real deal. The hen had puffed and shaken her white plumage at their approach, and then lifted off and circled the tree squawking furiously. Borelin had reached in to feel the rough warm surfaces with his palm. The eggs were large; almost a hands breadth in length. It wouldn’t be long till they hatched, he advised. A couple weeks, if that. Rook was crazy about those eggs, and would run off to check on them every chance he got. He went so often, in fact, that Borelin had had to warn the lad that if he was not careful the hen might just abandon the eggs. Daunted, Rook had stayed home for two days, but then had started going again, claiming that he stayed at a safe distance so as to not frighten off the mother. Borelin was unconvinced, but let it slide.
There was no way to know if the boy was at the tree, but it was the only idea that Borelin had. Frankly, it was unreasonable to expect that the lad had stayed with the eggs all day. All the same, Borelin’s anxious need to do something was channelled into that one possible hope. He measured the force of the gathering storm. It was impossible to tell where the true front was, but that small, irrational, desperate, voice inside him insisted that he had at least a half and hour yet. And, it argued, if he didn’t go, and he might have saved Rook, how would he be able to live with himself? Would he so casually toss aside ten years guarding the lad? With a flash of anger and shake of his head at himself for his own foolishness, he gave up trying to fight it. No point in standing around arguing with himself. If he was going to do it, he just needed to get going.
His mind made up, ducked inside and set about quickly getting dressed for the cold. Whenever he cooked, he saved the drippings in a large bucket. Now taking a handful of the congealed fat he carefully smeared it over his face, caking it heavily around his eyes. Not only would it provide an additional layer of protection, the oil would keep his eyes from freezing shut and keep the melting snow from wetting his face. With that done, he slipped into a full body woollen one-piece habit. He pulled on two layers of knit socks, and then hopped into a pair of heavy leather pants. On top, he pulled on a second woollen coat, this one with a hood. Out of the crate by the door he then brought out a thick oilskin mask and slipped it into place, leaving only a tiny slit for his eyes. Now he was ready for his heavy leather coat, which he shrugged on and tightly laced to ensure that as little snow could sneak inside as possible. Its fur-lined hood projected forward like a small tube in front of this face, and after pulling the woollen hood snugly over his mask, he flipped it into place and tied the leather drawstrings. Next, he grunted into reinforced, knee-high boiled leather boots and tucked the sleeves of his coat into elbow-length fur-lined leather mitts. Tying the drawstrings of the last glove was always difficult, but he managed it. Finally, after retrieving his snowwalkers from a hook on the wall and snapping them into place on his boots, he was ready. Borelin’s movements were practiced and efficient, and the whole ordeal took less than five minutes.
Borelin negotiated back up the stairs by turning his feet sideways, and then set off through the whipping snow back to the shed and the dogs. Unbolting the shed and dragging the door open, he moved aside a few items and then dragged the sled out of storage. It was a small two-man job, but it was solidly built and well maintained. The sled had seen a fair amount of wear, particularly in the early days when Borelin had hauled wood and supplies out to the farm from the nearest town, Crainil, ten miles or so off to the south. The travel pack with all the basic emergency supplies was lashed up front, within the sled’s basket, along with a cord of heavy hemp rope. Borelin dug around in the darkened interior of the shed by memory and located his tin of grease, when set about smearing it liberally on the sled’s skis. Then, just to be careful, he strapped a sharp four-foot spear along the side of the basket and backed the craft out into the whipping snow.
The dogs greeted the news that they would be out sledding in such terrible conditions with equanimity. When Borelin trekked over to them with the harnesses, they merely shook off the small drifts of snow that had already started to gather around them and stood obliging. He unhooked the dogs from the house chain and then wrestled the gear into place. What with the dark, the ripping winds, and his thick fingerless mitts, it was hard work getting them securely fastened. He had to bite back more than a few curses as the straps and buckles refused to cooperate. To make matters worse, the sled kept getting tossed about by the wind and would suddenly yank the equipment out of his hands. Notwithstanding the temperature outside, Borelin felt a trickle of sweat run down his back. At last, it was done.
Borelin led the lead dogs around towards the fence’s gate and set them running, then stepped onto the sled as it slid past. The howling rage of the wind and snow made shouting commands impossible. Borelin mushed the dogs out of the compound simply using the rope lines to guide them forward. The wind was blowing hard from the north, and though the dogs pulled hard, it fought them each step of the way. Shifting foot-high drifts blocked their path. The dogs put their heads down and threw themselves into the work. Borelin kept his body low to reduce resistance, but all the same, progress was slow.
Even with all of his layers, the cold began to seep into his skin. Fine grains of snow found the holes and cracks in his clothing and clawed at his skin. Borelin’s fingers tingled and ached from gripping the handle bar, and despite his snow mask and insulated hood his eyes watered from the relentless whipping sheets of snow. His laboured breath heated the inside of the mask, causing it to harden into a mass of crusted ice pressing on his face. He felt his feet going numb and stamped them to keep the blood flowing.
The further they travelled the more choppy the ride became. Peaks and troughs suddenly appeared, jarring and tipping the sled precariously. As the dogs pressed up and over larger and larger drifts, more than once Borelin’s feet were ripped from under him and he would find himself desperately holding onto the sled as it lurched forward. All about him was darkness and snow. There was no way to be sure that he was headed in the right direction or to get his bearings. All he could do was head directly into the wind and hope that it didn’t shift from due north. Time became reduced to a battle against each buffeting; to a grim contest of surviving the next jarring rise or fall. It was impossible to tell how long he had been out in the storm. At one point, the sled was lifted completely off the ground and tossed aside almost as if he had been swatted out of the air. Borelin lost his grip and was momentarily separated from the craft. He scrabbled about frantically on his knees, spinning around and searching with his hands for its hard surface, filled with panic. To be separated from the sled and his dog team would almost certainly mean his death. Fortunately, the dogs stopped pulling the overturned craft, and he was able to find it, right it, and press on. After that moment, however, his sense of urgency changed. The force and power of the blizzard continued to increase, and Borelin began to be afraid for his life. It was impossible to feel other than small and vulnerable before its colossal might. Waves of snow crashed over the dogs, forcing them to stumble and fall. He could no longer stand against it, and huddled down on his knees, hooking his arms to the handle bar by his elbows and clasping his hands over his bowed head.
At some point he realized he had been repeating the soldier’s prayer over and over in his head:
Yaelwe, my strength and my preserver Your justice is my shield Your light is my hope Cover me this day with your hand Shelter me within the shadow of your wing And receive me, I pray, on the last day. Sobeit.
He had not spoken the words for years, but now they came back to him like a second skin. They cycled over and over in his mind, and soon he began muttering the words aloud. It was good. The prayer gave him strength and hope in the infernal darkness. Though his hands were numb, he held fast to the craft with his arms as it shuddered and surged forward. Bolstered by prayer, he drove the fear of death from his mind, raised his head, and forced his eyes open. Over and over he repeated the words in an endless litany, He started shouting them out, throwing them into the face of the giant like a challenge. A brutal wind ripped the words out of his mouth so quickly that he could not even hear himself, but he shouted on. He bellowed until his voice was hoarse.
The sled crunched to a halt as a steep embankment suddenly materialized out of the darkness before him. An overhanging wedge of snow created a natural windbreak and prevented any attempt to proceed directly up the slope. The dogs stood for a moment, waiting directions and recovering their strength. Incredibly, he had found the hill. Almost unable to believe it, Borelin stood for a moment squinting up into the darkness. The wind dropped off momentarily, revealing the hoary silhouette of the old sunvane above him. With a fervent, “Thank you,” to the Sky Father, Borelin dragged the sled into cover and launched himself on foot up the hill.
“Rook!” he screamed, tossing aside heaps of snow, frantically searching all over the ground. His blood raced with a desperate burning need to see something, to hear anything.
“Rook! Rook!”
The sunvane creaked and moaned in the whipping wind, its shuttered vanes pressed tight against its bark. The windward side of the tree was partially encased in snow and ice, and as Borelin approached a sudden gust caused ice shards to shatter, break off, and whip into him. Ignoring the pain, he covered his face with his arm and pressed forward, up to the top of the rise. At the base of the tree was a small hollow formed by the meeting of three main roots. There, huddled within the lingering warmth of the roots, and partially covered with snow, Borelin found the lad.
“Rook! Oh my Lord!”
Rook lifted his head at Borelin’s voice. He wasn’t wearing a hood, and his long blonde hair whipped about his thin face. He had pale, almost white, skin, and delicate features. His thin blue lips chattered, and his long eyelashes were covered with ice. In stark contract to the rest of his thin features, his golden eyes were large, and stared up at Borelin’s bulk without comprehending. He was barely conscious.
He wasn’t dressed for the cold, merely having on light moccasins, leather pants, and a loose jacket. The only mercy was that he had left home wearing a fur-lined cloak, which he had wrapped around himself. But for the heat of the old sunvane, Rook would have never survived the brutal cold. Borelin reached into the hollow and started to lift the lad, only to feel him spasm and see him gasp in pain. The fur cloak was thrown off as Rook’s hand reached for his left leg, and Borelin saw immediately that it was badly broken. The boy’s lower leg was grotesquely snapped to the side. Borelin felt along it and found bone protruding. His heart sank, but he told himself that he didn’t have time to be distracted by emotion. Looking into the lad’s eyes, he yelled, “Rook! I have to move you! We’ve got to get you home!” He wasn’t sure that the lad even heard him. The wind and snow raced around them and the tree moaned and snapped back and forth. Shouting, “I’ll be right back!” Borelin turned and ran back to the sled. When he returned he had the short spear and rope with him. Jamming the head of the spear into the tree, he bent it back hard and snapped it in two. Then he took the two pieces and carefully braced the broken leg in place, being careful not to put any pressure on it.
Calling out, “Be brave!” Borelin put both arms under the lad, and carefully lifted the light body to his chest. He turned and trudged his way back down the hill. When he got there, he strapped the lad onto the back of the sled and carefully wrapped him both in the fur-lined cloak and a heavy woollen blanket from his emergency supplies. Finally, he reached into the supply bag and fished out a small, ornately carved wooden box. Opening it, he lifted out a fist-sized red stone. Heat poured off it, and it steamed and hissed as the snow whipped against it. The stone was wrapped in heavy gold straps and silver chains, and was one of Borelin’s most precious possessions. Going back to Rook, he lifted the covers and went to place the decorated stone in the boy’s hands. But Rook’s delicate fingers already held a hidden treasure. Cradled within his arms was one of the ellit’s eggs. Borelin sighed and just wedged the warm stone against the lad’s chest. There would be time to talk later, once they got home.
Although the wind was at their backs for the ride south, it was no less dangerous. Indeed, though he had done everything he could to pad and brace Rook’s broken leg, the thought of his fragile cargo weighed heavily on Borelin’s mind, causing him to grit his teeth at every wrench and jolt. He braced his feet on the gunwales at each side of the footboards and focused his strength on keeping the sled level as it ploughed along. The dogs seemed to sense their master’s need for urgency and fairly flew over the rising peaks and valleys of snow. Even in the short space that it had taken to collect and bundle up Rook, all trace of the sled’s tracks had been erased by the blowing snow. Borelin’s eyes strained into the darkness before him and he wished he had thought to light a bright fire in the house so that the upstairs windows might have acted like beacons in the night. The danger of missing the farm entirely weighed heavily upon him.
Behind him in the dark, the storm’s roar took on a deep rumbling resonance. Borelin felt the rippling sound in his legs before he heard it; a heavy thrumming that shook the earth like a great drum beaten in a slow uneven rhythm. The hairs on his neck stood up at the sound, and he knew instinctively what it was. The front of the storm had arrived. Near at his back, the waves of snow towered and crashed, some rising to the height of ten feet or more. He whipped the reigns and shouted at the dogs to race faster, but they were already travelling at breakneck speed. The sled could not outpace the snow, and rippling waves poured over Rook’s cocooned form, as if trying to clutch after the small craft and prevent its escape. A crushing roar of curling snow breakers beat ever closer behind them.
The dogs must have instinctively known the way home. With a jarring thud, the craft was hauled over one of the farm’s fenceposts, now nearly entirely submerged under four-foot drifts. Borelin guided the pack to the lee side of the house and then leapt off the craft. The entrance to the house was already nearly entirely covered with snow, but he bulled through it, shouldered the door open, and then carefully laid the boy inside. A five-foot crest crashed past outside, filling the doorway behind him and blocking him inside. Borelin hesitated, not knowing what he could do to save the sled or the dogs. A moment later, the house shook with the impact of the first great wave, and any thought of returning back outside was dashed. With a thump, the north-facing upstairs window, twelve feet above the ground, suddenly went dark. A light powder of snow trickled down from between the logs of the ceiling. There was nothing Borelin could do but pray that the meagre protection provided by the house itself had been enough to save the sled team.
The room was nearly pitch dark. Borelin tore off his outer clothing, felt his way over to the fireplace, and set about building a fire. The furious howling of the wind echoed down the chimney, and the dry logs quickly burst into a bright flame. Borelin returned to the wrapped form of the boy and carefully lifted him onto the dining table, untying and then spreading out the fur cloak beneath him. He felt a moment of panic when the lad did not respond at all, but Rook was merely unconscious. His slender chest gently rose and fell. Given the pain the lad must have experienced during their ride the sleep was a mercy, but Borelin knew that it was also a danger. Ten years ago, he had been a soldier and had served several tours of duty. He had seen injured men drift off peacefully, never to wake.
It broke his heart to see the little body broken before him. Borelin gently wiped the water off the lad’s face and pushed the lad’s matted blonde hair away from his face. He lifted the egg from where it lay beside Rook in the furs, and put it aside. Then he retrieved the hot stone and put in into the air above the table. When his hand released it, it did not fall, but merely remained hovering in the air, shedding a warm ruddy light over the lad’s sleeping form.
Borelin turned his attention to the break. Retrieving a skinning knife out of storage, he cut off the makeshift brace and then set about carefully cutting the boy’s pant leg to fully expose the wound. The break was about three inches below the knee and an inch of bone protruded at a right angle to the path of the leg. Around the puncture the skin was mottled pale red and purple. Mercifully, it looked like Rook hadn’t lost a lot of blood, likely on account of the cold. His skin was hard and brittle, freezing to the touch.
Borelin was anxious to set the break, but before he started he needed to check for other injuries and danger. He rolled the woollen blanket with one hand and then propped the broken leg upon it. Gingerly, he set about removing the lad’s clothing. Rook’s hands and feet were white with frostbite. It was dangerous, but the swelling wasn’t bad, and though his pale skin was laced with black splotches, the freezing hadn’t gone beyond saving. He unlaced Rook’s jacket, then propped the lad’s torso up and gingerly removed it. As his jacket was pulled away, the lad’s stunted wings came into view, carefully bound under the padded harness Borelin had made for him. Borelin unclasped the brace and they unfurled limply. They weren’t truly wings at all. Entirely devoid of large feathers, the downy protuberances extended a foot and a half from the lad’s back, like two skeletal arms. Their soft spiked ends brushed against the table and then folded flush against Rook’s back as Borelin laid his torso back down. Although a large welt covered the lad’s chest and one arm, as far as Borelin could tell there did not appear to be any other broken bones.
Other than some basic first aid and an old soldier’s field experience, Borelin did not have any medical expertise. Now that it came to doing it, he wasn’t at all sure that he would be able to set the bone properly. But there was nothing for it. The nearest healer was ten miles off south in Crainil, and separated from them by the snow giant outside. The storm could last for days and so long as the break remained untreated the lad’s condition would continue to deteriorate. Of course, it wouldn’t be enough to simply push the bone back in place; he knew he would need a new brace to keep the bones set. The broken spear wasn’t good enough. What he needed was something flat for each side of the leg. With a quick decision, he lifted and snapped apart one of the dining chairs. Borelin retrieved the cut rope and laid four strips beneath the boy’s elevated leg, then laid one of the chair’s rails on either side of the leg. Borelin stood studying the break and breathing deeply, mentally bracing himself. He placed his hands on either side of the break, one on the calf, one on the knee. With a quick prayer, he took a deep breath, yanked his hands apart. The thin leg separated. There was a small slurping sound as the bone sucked back into the leg. Then, putting his full strength into it, Borelin did his best to align the bone. The muscles resisted for a second, and then with a sickening pop, the bone snapped back into place.
Borelin stood for a moment breathing heavily and wondering how he would keep holding the leg in place while tying the brace into position. After a moment’s thought, he climbed up onto the table and placed his knees tightly on either side if the break, then used his hands to pull and bind the cords in place. He could not help worrying that the bone would snap out of place again as he worked, but to his relief it remained fixed in place. At last he was done. The leg was firmly tied to the rails and lay straight. He climbed down off the table and wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of a forearm.
Rook had not woken throughout the ordeal, but lay as still as death upon the table. Purple shadows surrounded the boy’s mouth and eyes, and Borelin worried that he might have taken too long setting the break. He moved around the table to lean over the boy and listen to his shallow breathing. Then he began gently slapping the boy’s face and talking to him, trying desperately to wake him.
“Rook. Come on, lad. Wake up. The worst is…over now. Wake up now. Come on. Come on. There’s a boy. You were brave. So brave. We made it. We’re safe now. I’ve got your egg. I’ve got it right here. Come on, I know you can hear me. Why don’t you… tell me all about it.”
Borelin picked up the lad’s frozen hands and placed them against his own chest, trying to warm them. With one hand he held both of them in place, with the other he continued to tap on Rook’s cheek.
“Come on, kid. Don’t give up! I just need you to open your eyes. You’re all right now. You’re all right. I’m here. Come on…now…”
The boy remained limp in his arms. Tears welled up and dripped down Borelin’s nose as his body was shaken by silent sobs. He leaned over and pressed his tangled beard against the lad’s face. His arms wrapped around the lad’s limp form, cradling it his arms and rocking it back and forth.
“Come on… Don’t you do this…”
A small sigh escaped the boy’s lips.
Borelin leaned back from the table and looked down into those beautiful golden eyes. His heart leapt, but a choked, “Hey,” was all he could manage.
“I’m sorry,” the boy answered in a cracked whisper.
Borelin realized that he had hardly been breathing. He let out a deep breath and put his head back down again, holding the lad tightly in his arms. He was unable to speak, his heart overflowing with a crushing thankfulness and guilt.
That night they stayed up for a long time, just talking. Borelin brought down a heap of blankets from upstairs and built a nest on the main floor for the two of them. Stripped to their bedclothes, they lay together for the first time in years. Borelin held onto the boy’s body to thaw it with his body’s heat, and felt comforted. As the lad’s body warmed his leg started to bleed, but a light poultice and dressing stopped the flow before it got dangerous. Borelin warmed some tea over the fire and helped Rook swallow it down to help replenish his liquids.
Rook was in a lot of pain, but Borelin kept him talking to keep his mind off it and to make sure that the lad didn’t slip back into unconsciousness. The lad insisted on keeping the egg with him, sure that it would hatch at any moment. He explained how he had gone out to the nest in the morning. He had played around the hill as the sun rose in the sky, making up various make-believe games. Then, at about midday, the hen had suddenly left the nest and flown off to the south. Rook had climbed the tree to check on the eggs, and found them same as ever. He didn’t understand why their mother had left. When the storm started to threaten, he hesitated on returning home, worried about what would happen to the nest. He didn’t want to just leave them. Finally, when the wind started to really build, he decided to bring them home. He had brought the first one down and tucked it in the tree’s roots while he went back up to get the second. But just as he lifted the second egg out of the nest a great wind had shaken the tree and he had fallen and hurt his leg. He had called for help but no one had heard him. The storm had just gotten worse and worse, and in the end he dragged himself under the tree for shelter from the cold and snow. He didn’t remember most of how he got home; it was just a blur. All he remembered was Borelin carrying him and putting him on the sled. Then he was waking up on the table and Borelin was upset.
Borelin explained to Rook that he wasn’t upset with him, it was just that he had been so worried. It had seemed like a long way from the farm to the tree though the storm, and finding Rook and getting him home had taken a lot out of him. He was just exhausted. Without reprimanding, Borelin pointed out the lessons to be learned. Stay close. Don’t play with nature; come home at the first sign of a storm. When the beasts flee, it meant danger was coming. Rook said he had learned his lesson. Mostly, he just said that he was glad that Rook was safe and alive.
Encouraged, Rook admitted what Borelin had already guessed, which was that he wanted to hatch the ellit chick and raise it as a pet. Was he allowed? Notwithstanding Rook’s efforts, Borelin was not at all sure that the bird would survive its ordeal. As gently as possible, he tried to lower the lad’s hopes. “I know that an ellit sounds like a great pet, Rook, but they very difficult to tame. It would probably just fly away and not come back.” Borelin’s efforts backfired, however. From the bright look in the lad’s eyes, he had taken Borelin’s lack of refusal as an acceptance, and was already fantasizing about how he would raise the bird. Borelin let it go for now.
At some point Rook noticed the floating stone. It still hung in the air when Borelin had left it, shedding a pale glow over the table. When Rook asked to see it, Borelin went and plucked it out of the air and brought it close. On closer observance, it actually had a mottled appearance, with black flecks interspersed within the blood red of the polished stone. Rook’s eyes grew large with wonder as he held it. He marvelled at the warmth of it, and at the delicate inscriptions carved into the gold bands that surrounded it. He was full of questions, and Borelin did his best to answer them.
“What is it?”
“It Arachite. It’s a very rare kind of stone that forever keeps its heat and is lighter than the air.”
“Is that why it floats?”
“Yes. In fact, the decorations on it weigh it down. If it didn’t have these gold and silver bands, it would just keep rising up and float away.”
“Really?”
Borelin nodded.
“Is that writing on the gold bands? I can’t read it.”
“Its not written in English. It’s an old language, used by your people.”
“What’s language is that?”
“It’s called Lamant.”
“Do you know what it says?”
“No, I don’t.”
The boy puzzled at the script, disappointed. “I bet is says, ‘Leave these bands on or I will float way.’”
Borelin laughed. “I bet it does.”
Rook smiled up at Borelin and then winced. “My leg hurts.”
“I know. It was pretty bad. But just leave it alone, and it will get better.”
They lay in a comfortable silence for a time.
“Borelin?”
“Hmm?”
“Tell me about my people again.”
Borelin heard the aching need in the lad’s voice. Raised alone in the wilderness, separated from his kind, Rook had an orphan’s need for belonging and identity. On some deep level it hurt Borelin to know that the lad yearned for another world, but there was no point dwelling on it. He didn’t give any hint of his feeling. Instead, he just began to gently retell the story he had told a thousand times as the lad had grown up in his keeping.
“Well, let’s see. You are a seraph. Your people are like you. They fine features, fair hair, and beautiful pale-coloured skin. They have beautiful wings, and can fly over the world. They live just like you and me, only in a city in the sky, called Heaven. Some are fierce warriors, and some are beautiful princesses, and others are priests who can do holy magic. The King of the whole world is a seraph, and he rules with his queen from his great court, in Heaven. Just as Yaelwe watches over us and protects us, so too does the King guard over us from his holy court. But he is not alone. Great armies, the most powerful armies in the world bow to the King and serve him. It is the armies of the King that guard and watch over the whole world, keeping the people safe from demons, monsters, and all kinds of dangers…”
He let his voice trail off. Comforted by the deep resonance of Borelin’s voice, Rook’s eyes had fluttered closed. His fingers slipped off the Arachite, and it bobbled past the ellit’s egg and slowly away over the blankets. Borelin lifted it and placed it in the air over them. He checked the lad and breathed a sigh of relief. It was merely sleep, and no danger. Rook lay in the crook of his arm, holding onto his treasured egg and breathing deeply. As for Borelin, he was past exhausted. With a final muttered prayer of thanks to the Sky Father, he closed his eyes and allowed sleep to overcome him.
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Post by Nedward Underhill on Nov 14, 2008 23:58:47 GMT -6
Chapter 2
The storm raged continuously, day and night. Its barrage was relentless. Wave upon wave of snow broke upon the house, though the impact decreased as the days passed and the snow piled up and covered it. It never got light out, but the pitch darkness shifted to a shadowy grey as the days passed.
Borelin tended to Rook. Rook tended to the egg. The lad never willingly let it get out of his reach. He rubbed his hands endlessly over its rough surface. He listened to it. He nestled it between his legs and talked to it. When Borelin fed him, Rook tucked the egg under the blankets to keep it warm. When he relieved himself in the bedpan, he insisted that Borelin hold and protect it.
In a way it was a mercy that Rook was distracted, as he was restricted to bed and was in a lot of pain. Even with the brace, he kept accidentally jostling the break and crying out. Any kind of movement was obviously painful, but he just could not lie still. Of course, commanding a ten-year-old to lie still was about as useful as commanding a boloc not to eat, or snow not to fall. Inevitably, not ten minutes after crying out in pain, Rook would start fidgeting and end up hurting himself again. Borelin’s teeth ached from grinding.
Borelin cleaned and dressed the wound daily, but as the days passed it became increasingly clear that the boy’s leg was not healing properly. A dark discoloration spread around the wound and snaked over Rook’s skin like a purple spider web. He became lethargic, and then started to sleep more often and run a fever. Soon, Borelin regretted being short with the lad, and found himself wishing that the boy would start fidgeting again. Rook no longer had the energy to sit up in bed, and he just lay in the blankets, covered in sweat and moaning weakly. Borelin incessantly inspected the wound, painfully aware that his first aid abilities were woefully inadequate for the task.
Borelin prostrated himself before his holy shrine to Yaelwe morning and evening, reciting the words of the devotions with fervour. Dominating the face of the stone altar was an engraved image of the Sky Father dressed in a flowing robe, with his right hand held up in benediction, and his left holding a sword pointed towards his feet. His wings surrounded him like a mantle. Borelin touched his lips to the hem of the Sky Father’s engraved robe on the altar, praying desperately for relief and healing, but his prayers were not answered.
By the third day, the infection had spread to the whole leg. A pale mucous oozed from the still open wound, and Rook barely woke. Borelin was able to force fluids into him, but Rook would not eat. The only thing that seemed to keep him awake at all was the ellit’s egg. Whenever he awoke, the first thing he would do was to check to see if it had hatched. He repeatedly insisted that Borelin promise to wake him at the first sign of anything. But there was never any change. Borelin had inspected it a few times while the lad slept, and had already concluded that the bird inside was dead. But Rook was so determinedly optimistic, and there was such hope in his eyes that Borelin didn’t have the heart to break it to him.
That night, Borelin couldn’t sleep. Their isolation on the farm weighed heavy on him. Rook’s leg had started to swell horribly, and the terrible possibility had occurred to him that he might have to try to remove the leg as a last desperate attempt to save Rook’s life. Of course, he was no surgeon, and he knew that he could very well kill the lad, trying to save him. It all seemed so wrong. Borelin paced about the small house, frustrated and overwhelmed by his feeling of helplessness. It seemed like a cruel joke that Rook might have survived his ordeal in the storm only to now succumb to a fever. He stopped and listened to the storm outside, trying to hear some sign that it was waning. But the rumble of the waves only sounded to him like mocking laughter. An overpowering rage welled up inside of him, and marching across the house to the shrine he stood for a long time staring at its shadowy shape. Finally he gritted out, his voice low and furious in the darkness, “It’s not right. It’s not right! Do not take your anger out on him. He has done…nothing!” At this last, Borelin’s voice cracked like a whip. For a moment he stood transfixed, breathing heavily and struggling to regain control of himself. Then, by brute force of will, he slowly sank down to his knees and prayed for forgiveness.
On the fourth day, the storm finally abated. Borelin woke to silence, and for a moment he felt disoriented. Then the reality of the change sank home to him. With a shout, he rushed to the window to look outside, but the bright light pouring down through the house already told the tale. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and the sun shone down upon a freshly made landscape of lightly rolling snow. Looking out at the fresh landscape, Borelin’s mind started working furiously. Crainil had a small country church, and a chaplain. She was a good woman, and tended her small parish’s ailments with knowledge and compassion. Borelin had attended a few services over the years and they knew each other. Most importantly, she was trustworthy. If Borelin could get the lad there, there might still be a chance to save the leg. And, though it pained him to consider it, if the leg needed to come off, better that a chaplain perform the operation.
Rook was still in rough condition, but he woke when touched, drank some tea, and even nibbled on some dry bread. He smiled weakly when Borelin showed him that the storm had passed, then lay down and gazed lovingly at his egg.
Borelin got dressed, gathered the snow scoop from next to the door, and got to work digging them out. He just prayed that the dogs had somehow survived. If not, he would just walk to town and convince the chaplain to come out and help them. Hell, he’d carry the boy the ten miles to town if he had to! The entryway was blocked over with a tall drift, but he tunnelled through it and before long he was poking his head out into the sunshine and breathing the crisp morning air. He dragged himself up and looked around. As usual, the storm had dragged most of the snow with it. In most places around the farm there was about a foot or two of new snow on the ground. Around the buildings, however, the snow was piled anywhere from four to eight feet deep. The barn was almost entirely covered over, and was mostly just visible by way of the tall chimneys rising out of its roof.
A mountain of snow was piled up on the south side of the house. Although somewhat protected from the winds and great waves of the snowstorm, the snow had curled around the sides of the house and poured over its top to gather in a huge drift. There was no sign of sled of dogs. Undaunted, Borelin got to work. Starting from the corner of the house, he ploughed a broad trench through the snowdrift. Periodically, as the hole deepened and widened around him, he would stop and carefully feel ahead under the snow with his hands for any sign of the beasts or craft. Finally, his scoop hit something hard and stopped short. Brushing the snow aside, the sled’s handle bar came into view. With renewed vigor, Borelin dug his way around the sled and located the silverbacks in the snow. Miraculously, both dogs and sled had survived. The dogs emerged from the snow blinking and yawning in the morning light, sniffing his hands and looking for food.
Borelin was ecstatic. With a heartfelt prayer of thanks to the Sky Father, he tossed down meat for the beasts and then set about digging the sled out. After three days trapped inside with nothing to do but worry, it was such a relief to simply be able to do something constructive. Besides, the snow was fresh and light and, by putting his back into it, he made steady progress. After about another half-hour the sled was sufficiently cleared that, with the help of the team, he managed to drag it out to the surface. Looking at the sun, he figured it to be about ten in the morning. With luck, they would make it to Crainil before eleven. The dogs look up at him expectantly, apparently perfectly ready to get going. He patted them each in thanks, then trudged back over the snow and began widening the path to the doorway so that he could carry the boy out and get going.
“Not out of the cold yet,” he told himself, and while true enough, he still couldn’t dampen his risen spirits. He found himself humming an old church tune and smiled. Finally, he was ready. Ducking his head under the doorway, he stomped inside, slammed the door behind him, and turned to face the lad.
“Rook, we are going to get you to the…”
Borelin’s voice trailed off; interrupted by the tiniest trilling whistle. For a moment he stared, speechless. In the silence, a sharp tap followed by the sound of an egg cracking echoed loudly.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” he groaned.
He should have known that bad luck comes in threes. Rook was sitting up in the blankets, his stunted wings fluttering and his face flushed with fever and excitement. His hands lay between his legs, tenderly clasped onto the egg. Another shrill whistle emerged out of the small hole in its top surface, followed by the tip of a tiny black beak. The baby ellit was very much alive.
Reluctantly, Borelin approached and studied the chick’s efforts. Every few seconds the egg wobbled and shook as the baby bird struggled to break free of the hard shell around it. Rarely did it make any progress, but neither did it give up, and every so often another piece would break off and the hole would get a tiny bit larger.
Rook was enraptured. Without taking his eyes off the egg, he asked, “Can I help break the shell?”
Confronted by the question, Borelin realized that he had no answer. He didn’t have the first clue about birds. He didn’t know how long the hatching would take, or if they could speed the process, or even what to do with it once it hatched. He scratched his tangled beard and stared down at the struggling thing in dismay. His mind was spinning. The bird could not have chosen a worse time to hatch. They didn’t have time to play around hatching some wild animal. They needed to get the lad to town! Though Rook was sitting up, Borelin knew that it was merely the rush of excitement that had dragged him from his stupor, not any improvement in his condition. Rook’s bedclothes were soaked with his sweat, and his skin was drawn and wasted.
Evidently, Rook took Borelin’s lack of refusal as permission, for he started picking at the hole with his delicate fingers to help the chick emerge. Borelin wasn’t at all sure that was a good idea, and found himself waving his hands for the lad to stop, and saying, “Hold on. Maybe that’s not such a good idea…”
Rook was undaunted. “Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”
A small pile of broken eggshell pieces spread over the lad’s lap, and soon the head of the tiny creature could be clearly seen. Other than its beak, which was grey with a black tip, its wet down-covered form was entirely white. Its eyes were closed and its small head jerked weakly from side to side as it struggled to rise. Rook whispered encouragements to it as it worked.
Borelin just stared, feeling numb, and not at all sure what to do.
With the help of the boy’s fingers, the shell was soon broken in half. As they watched, the egg suddenly lurched out of the lad’s hands and the chick’s tiny wet form flopped halfway out of the shell. Startled by the sudden movement, Rook did not immediately react. The egg, wedged between the boy’s thighs, hung several inches above the floor. The chick drooped in the air. It’s legs pumping weakly inside the remains of the shell, forcing it out. The tiny body tipped precariously, and then started to fall. With an incoherent gurgle, Borelin fell to his knees and slipped his rough hands under the bird to catch it. It slipped warm and wet onto his palm, barely filling his hand. Its swollen purple legs twitched against his thumb and its tiny beak pressed face-down into his fingers.
“Can I hold him?” Rook asked, recovering.
Borelin realized that his hands were shaking. The tiny thing in his hands was so helpless and fragile that he was suddenly afraid the boy might break it.
“Put your hands together. Now…don’t move,” he growled. Rook held absolutely still. Once satisfied, Borelin delicately tipped the chick into the lad’s cupped hands. Rook gazed down in wonder and the slippery thing. He held it to his body and stroked its wing with his thumb. Borelin’s hands kept hovering anxiously over the bird, but the lad was careful, and there was no danger. The chick, exhausted from its efforts, lay sleeping in the lad’s hands. Borelin sat back and started breathing again.
The chick was not the only one who was exhausted. The excitement of the hatching had taken its toll on Rook. After a few minutes, he could barely keep his eyes open and his head started to droop upon his chest. Borelin got some liquids into the lad, then gently helped him lie back down and tucked the baby ellit beside him. With the bird safely nestled next to him, Rook finally took his eyes off it. Looking up at Borelin with his bloodshot eyes, he announced, “His name is Storm.”
Borelin had no answer. He was looking at the feverish lad, unsure how they were going to manage with this new unexpected addition.
Predictably, though Rook could barely stay conscious, he refused to leave the bird behind. When Borelin mentioned that the bird was too young to travel, the boy immediately insisted that they didn’t have to go and that he was feeling much better. Borelin wouldn’t hear of it. Rook’s leg was still darkly discoloured and swollen so badly that the cord was cutting into it. But when Borelin set the bird aside and started dressing the lad to go, Rook started crying that Storm would die if left all alone. He was frantic. It was impossible to reason with him. In the end, Borelin took an old crate, lined it with fur and straw, and laid the sleeping bird delicately within it. Reluctantly, Rook accepted being separated by the wall of the crate for the trip. Borelin belted on the lad’s wing straps, and then carefully dressed him as much as possible without jostling the wound. Finally, he carried both boy and crate out to the waiting sled.
Borelin placed the crate at the back of the sled, strapped it into place, and leaned the boy against it. With a thick roll of fur, he propped up Rook’s swollen leg so that it wouldn’t get caught in the snow. Rook had cried out in pain when Borelin had tried to wrap the leg in anything more than a light cloth blanket. Now it was exposed to the cold air, and Borelin worried that it would freeze once the wind started blowing against them. He carefully covered the lad with a woollen blanket. Rook then insisted that he cover the bird box as well. With a sigh, Borelin went back inside and got another blanket. As he stood in the doorway of the house, blanket in hand, Borelin took a last look around the room. It was past midday, and the light shone down in a bright beam from the house’s north-facing window. Over in the corner of the room, the shining light played on the shrine, and on the carved figure of Yaelwe. Just for second, as his eyes passed over the shrine, Borelin was sure that he saw the Sky Father wink. He shook his head and closed the door firmly behind him.
Crainil was a tiny town of a few hundred souls, huddled close together atop of a small rise in the midst of the open plain. The hill acted as a windbreak. As a result, a modest-sized sunvane wood surrounded the town and formed a rough wedge off to the south. Littering the plain around the north face of the hill were various sizes of boulders, hurled at the town by the raging snow giants over the years. Not surprisingly, the north side’s trees were bent and battered. Drifts of snow swooped up, threatening to cover them over, but though they leaned they supported each other and held fast. Inside the tree cover, the townsfolk had cleared a large round space on the hilltop and built a thick braced wall around the town to further shelter themselves from the elements. The town gates faced south, and a rough and winding forest trail led through the trees and up to them. Borelin mushed the dogs along slowly, carefully navigating through the trees so as to avoid unnecessarily jostling his fragile passengers. Unlike out in the open plain, the snow was not dry and hard-packed. Here, the collective warmth of the sunvane trees caused the snow to pile up deeply around them. The dogs feet sank into the fresh snow, and their breath became laboured as they pulled the sled up the hill. From the few tracks lining the path it was evident that not many travellers had come or gone since the passing of the storm. Borelin felt himself tensing up, knowing that his arrival would likely be a cause of interest, as usual.
Borelin had something of a reputation among the locals. Though he travelled to town every few weeks for supplies, and attended public worship several times a year, Borelin had never volunteered his name to anyone in the town save the chaplain. He rebuffed any attempt to befriend him, or draw him into conversation. At first, some of the locals took offence. But never caused any trouble, and after a while the townsfolk simply accepted his standoffishness and came to refer to him as “the hermit.” He answered to the title without qualm. They were generally polite with him. Still, it wasn’t unusual to have children tugging on their mother’s coats at the sight of him, and people whispering together behind his back. Putting his head down, he passed through the open gates and entered the town.
Like the trees outside it, the buildings of the town cluttered one next to the other for strength and support. The residents had built their homes around the outside, both supporting and taking advantage of its immediate shelter of the sturdy circular wall. As the town grew, a second ring of houses had grown up facing the first, across a beaten patch of snow. All of the houses were built in the local style, but over time the newer buildings were sandwiched in between and built onto their neighbours until they formed into a single long structure, its roof a series of ascending and descending points. Inside the rings of homes were the town’s businesses and shops. Again, these appeared built one on top of each other without any predetermined plan. In some cases the merchants simply shared space, their signage indicating all of the wares and services that could be found within. More often, however, each original building sprouted multiple additions, each one housing a distinct enterprise. Businesses did not only operate from the street level either. Snow-covered wooden stairways crisscrossed up the buildings, leading to tiny second storey shops and apartments.
Even at late afternoon, the town was bustling with activity and noise. Crainil was renowned throughout the world for the quality of its sled dogs, and a half dozen kennels dotted the town. The two principal breeds remained silverbacks, for power, and lutas, for speed, but each kennel had their own unique purebred and crossbred varieties. All in all, there were between fifty to a hundred dogs within the town walls at any given time, which essentially meant that the residents lived with perpetual barking. They didn’t seem to mind. The townsfolk simply spoke, laughed, and lived louder. All in all, it was a good place as any to raise a family in the country. The commerce was brisk, the folk genial, and the town gates proclaimed Crainil the “safest town in the world.”
In the centre of town stood Crainil’s great hall, a massive log structure that served both as communal gathering place and centre of trade and commerce. A wide, well-travelled thoroughfare led invitingly from the town gates to its open double doors. A steady stream of folk passed in and out of the steaming interior. Inside, Borelin could see folks inside sitting at the long benches, drinking, and discussing matters of interest with their neighbours.
Borelin did his best to avoid the crowds. A few people called out to him, but he pretended not to hear and turned his sled to seek out the chapel and its healer. The Divine Spirit Luial’s stood in the southeast quarter of town. With its turreted eyrie, it was by far the tallest building in the town, rising up at least two storeys above even the great hall. Like most everything in the town, it was not a single structure, but was formed from a cluster of buildings, each constructed at various times over the years. The “chapel” was actually composed of the chapel proper, where worship was conducted and pilgrims took the cure, the towering eyrie rising above it, the chaplain’s attached residence, and the local hospice. The old chapel was actually a relatively small building, and was unique among the buildings of the town in that it was largely composed of cemented stone. It was by far the oldest building in the small town. Borelin knew from past discussions with the chaplain that it had existed for hundreds of years, long before there was even a town around it. In fact, the hill had always been a holy place and centre of worship. Even the chapel’s name referred back to religious beliefs before the dawn of time, when pagans would come to seek healing at the Temple of Luial, and worship the divine spirit as a goddess. It was easy to understand why they would have come. The chapel was built over the site of a heated spring that boiled up from deep within the belly of the earth. The curative properties of the holy waters were universally recognized, and continued each year to attract worshippers in search of healing.
An ancient stone statue of the divine spirit stood with arms outstretched next to the wide stone stairs down into the chapel. The wind and snow had long ago completely worn away the finer features of the statue, but it still managed to powerfully convey the sense of peace that Borelin associated with the house of prayer and worship. A weight of worry slipped from his shoulders even as the building come into view. He guided the dogs up next to the entrance, parked the sled, and stretched the travel ache out of his legs and arms. With a grunt, he pushed back his hood and pulled off his ice-encrusted snow mask. The smell of the holy waters infused the air around the chapel, and Borelin inhaled deeply through this nose, savouring the first hints of the holy water’s pungent aroma. A muffled peeping told him that the baby bird had survived its first journey. As for the lad, Rook looked around drowsily, desperately trying to stay awake. With a quick word that he would be right back, Borelin strode down the stairs, pushed open the wooden doors and, surrounded by a sudden gust of steam, stepped within.
The air inside was hot and humid, and Borelin unbuttoned his heavy travel clothing as he passed through the antechamber and entered the main worship area. Though the sacred pools were far below the sanctuary, deep in the chapel crypts, even here the aroma of the healing waters assaulted the senses. The transition from the crisp cold wind outside to the hot cloying air within was overwhelming, and Borelin had to stop for a moment to adjust and clear his mind. Such was the nature of the holy place that it forced each supplicant to enter in to a new frame of mind, and leave the outside world behind.
Just inside the inner door was a short pedestal upholding a carved image of Yaelwe, his wings widespread and his arms opened wide in a welcoming embrace. Borelin knelt and recited the prayer of entry before touching his fingers to his lips and then to the hem of the Lord’s garment.
Bless this humble supplicant who seeks entry Oh my Lord You walk with wings of the wind You calm the storm with your hands Whom shall I trust but thee?
Lifting his head, he stood up and took in the room. The sanctuary was a large circular room, roughly thirty feet across. In its centre was a raised platform surmounted with an intricately carved wooden partition designed to enclose and conceal the holy fount. Long wooden benches were arranged in expanding circles around the platform for the congregants. The walls were covered with large, intricately woven tapestries depicting the supremacy of Yaelwe over the old gods, and their inevitable worship of him. Not surprisingly, of particular prominence were representations of the divine wisdom of Luial and her immediate embrace of the Sky Father. But many other mythic tales were depicted as well. These were the stories all children grew up with and knew by heart. The disobedience of Cal, divine spirit of war, his resulting blindness, and his ultimate redemption and new sight. Yaelwe’s fortnight pursuit of the twins, Naewin and Urincia, and their ultimate capture. And of course, the cautionary tales involving Sheil, the divine spirit of chaos and mischief, and his unrepentant fall over the edge of the world. Above the tapestries, the whitewashed domed ceiling rose up twenty feet to the painted image of a great blazing sun at its apex.
Borelin’s eyes were drawn to the sound of a door opening on the far side of the room. The chaplain quietly slipped into the room, a clay urn in her hands. She was of average height, with strong hands, broad hips, a contented sway to her step. Her feet were small and covered in sensible reinforced leather slippers. As always, she wore the traditional black habit surmounted with white scapular and veil appropriate to her office. Around her neck hung a single gold chain with a sun resting between her ample breasts. She did not immediately see him, but merely proceeded around replenishing the oil in the many small lanterns that illuminated the sanctuary. Watching her, Borelin suddenly found himself nervous. He coughed politely, causing her to stop and turn towards him.
“Well,” she exclaimed. “Borelin! What an unexpected surprise.” Her voice was soft and musical, and her exposed hazel eyes sparkled with unreserved affection.
Borelin looked away. “Mother Clara,” he said gruffly, “it’s about the lad. I need your help.”
She became serious immediately. “Of course. Please, come in.”
“Actually…I’ve brought him. He’s outside. It’s his leg… Actually, you should just come see for yourself.”
“You’ve brought him? Oh my.”
They brought the lad inside and laid him on one of the benches so that the chaplain might examine him. The bird box Borelin placed by the door. Storm had evidently found his singing voice, as an incessant racket emerged from the crate as it moved. Clara lifted an eyebrow at the muffled squeaking, but didn’t ask. Borelin didn’t have the energy to get into it.
Borelin quickly explained what had happened as Clara lifted the woollen blanket and examined Rook’s leg. A sickly smell wafted up from the injury as it came into view. Rook was in bad shape. He looked up blankly at his surroundings, and his breathing was laboured. The leg was awful to look at. The skin varied from dark purple and black, to a vivid yellow around the wound. Blood and pus drained out of the unhealed scar. The chaplain exhaled anxiously, considering.
Over her shoulder, she asked, “This was three days ago, the fall?”
“It was three nights ago. This is the fourth day.”
She shook her head as she worked. Pressing on the swollen leg, she asked Rook if it hurt. He shook his head, no. When she manipulated it, though, he cried out. Borelin clenched his teeth and stood by, feeling useless. After a few minutes’ examination and gentle questioning of the boy, she stood and pulled Borelin aside. The look in her eye made his heart drop and he steeled himself for the worst.
“I don’t know exactly what is causing the injury to get worse. Something may have gotten into the wound or the bone may not be properly set, but his leg is so swollen that I can’t tell.”
“What can you do for him?” Borelin asked.
Clara turned and considered the small boy. “He’s awfully young. And he’s very weak. We can drain the leg, maybe cut in and try to see what the cause of the trouble is, but honestly, I just don’t know if he can survive it.”
Despite his efforts to remain calm, an icy chill cut through his heart at her words. “I was hoping that the holy waters might…”
She nodded her head. “We will try, of course. But the touch of the holy waters will be a great strain upon the boy’s spirit. I have seen strong men unable to endure it. Yaelwe’s will shall be in this, as in all things.”
“Sobeit,” Borelin answered, automatically. Taking a breath, Borelin kept his voice level and asked the question weighing on his mind. “What about removing the leg?”
She paused, studying him, then answered, “Possibly. But again, Borelin, that’s a lot of trauma. He would be sure to lose a lot of blood, and in his condition… Also, the sickness has spread up to his waist. Even if he survived the surgery, it might not even be a cure.”
“Damn it, Clara,” Borelin snapped, “There has to be a way to save him!”
The chaplain placed her hand comfortingly on his arm. “I know how hard this must be for you. I’ll do everything I can. I promise.”
Borelin turned his head away from her. He clenched his fingernails into his palms and took a deep breath. After a moment, he answered, “Just tell me what you need me to do.”
Sensing Borelin’s need to keep his emotions in check, Mother Clara became businesslike. “Well, first we need both of you out of your outdoor apparel.”
Borelin blinked with surprise. He suddenly realized that he was still wearing all of his travel gear, and was sweating profusely. While he struggled to remove several layers, Clara returned to the lad and spoke quietly to him. When Borelin joined them, Rook looked up at him and said, “Am I going to be all right?”
Borelin ran his hand over the lad’s sweaty forehead, and nodded. He didn’t trust himself to answer the question, so instead he just said, “Come on. Let’s get you out of that heavy clothing.”
As Borelin worked at undressing Rook, Clara proceeded through the antechamber doors and bolted the front door. He appreciated her sensitivity. The last thing they needed is someone happening in upon them. When she returned, he asked, “Is there anyone inside? Or taking the waters?”
“No. What with the storm, we didn’t get any pilgrims today. Actually, you were lucky to get in. Normally I keep the front doors locked in the evening. I must have forgotten to lock it earlier.”
At Clara’s direction, Borelin lifted the lad and followed her out of the sanctuary and down the winding stairs into the crypt. The heat pressed up against them as they descended, and though the stone stairs were wide and their steps shallow, the surfaces were covered with moisture and Borelin proceeded cautiously. Light flickered upon them from guttering lamps set into niches carved in the walls. The further down they went, the more and more ancient the surroundings became. Walls and ceiling became rough-hewn and the steps uneven. Finally, with a last curve of the ancient steps, the stairwell ended in a large pitch-black fissure. Though only three feet wide at its base, it rose up far above their heads as it narrowed to a sharp point. A small collection of torches sat in metal brackets next to the entrance, and taking one up and lighting it with the last lamp, Clara led the way into the crypt.
They proceeded down the sloping surface of the narrow passage, Borelin turning sideways so as to protect the boy from scraping against the rough stone walls. The sound of water dripping echoed close in the darkness, underscored by the low bubbling sound of the holy pools. The smell was overpowering, and Borelin had to blink to clear his watering eyes. A shuddering cough wracked Rook’s body in his arms. After a final short distance, the constricted passageway ended and they emerged into a large underground cavern.
The light of the torch bloomed out in the open air, casting flickering light over the nearby walls of the chamber. The crypt was so large that the far walls and the ceiling remained in darkness. Before the trio, the stone floor extended for six feet before the inky blackness of the water began. The pool too was massive, filling most of the room. Lifting the torch high, Clara led the way along beside the water’s edge. The room was not round, but rough and irregular. Pockets of darkness appeared in the walls as they proceeded around the pool, as the walls meandered through recesses and depressions. Dripstone sliced down from the ceiling, and rose from the floor, sometimes forming into massive bowed columns. After a short distance along beside the pool, a path composed from great flat-topped stones appeared, leading out into the water. Clara turned and proceeded along the path and over the water, leading them out into the heart of the holy pool. Picking his steps with care, Borelin followed with the boy. The heat from the water was intense. The water itself was thick and syrupy, like boiling pitch. Around them, bubbles the length of a man’s arm spread out slowly over the water’s surface and then burst, sending waves of heat upwards. Even in his light indoor garments Borelin was overdressed for this intense heat. His leather pants stuck uncomfortably to him as he walked, and Borelin felt the sweat pouring down his face and under his arms.
The laid stone path led at last to a stone island in the midst of the water. The island was a good dozen feet across, and entirely surrounded by the inky blackness of the boiling waters. With only Clara’s spitting torch to illuminate around them the far walls were now lost in the gloom. In the centre of the island, and rising up to about waist height, stood a massive flat-topped stone. At a gesture from the healer, Borelin laid the lad carefully down on its surface. Rook coughed again, weakly, and asked why it smelled so badly. Borelin had no answer. “It’s not for us to ask,” he muttered. Unconvinced, Rook put his hands over his nose and mouth.
Clara set about getting ready. Stationed at each side of the island were tall wooden firebrands, prepared with wrapped moss. Using the torch, she lit each in turn, speaking the words of the prayer of illumination in a low voice. Borelin took Rook’s hands in his, and together they provided the necessary responses.
O gracious Light, pure as the sky above, shine down upon us this day For our eyes are blinded and forever seek you Bring us this day into the light of your mercy And renew our hope in your mercy Cast us not aside from your presence, O Lord And take not your loving hand from upon us For out of darkness shall we glimpse your truth And evermore rise to greet thee. Glory to you, Lord and Father on high As it was in the beginning, is now, and forever shall be. Sobeit.
Rook’s eyes stared up at Borelin, his surprise written on his face. Growing up alone on the farm, he had never prayed with anyone but Borelin. And though they had said the words together each morning, it was one thing to light a few candles and mutter the words at home, and another thing entirely to have the words echoing up into the darkness of the holy chamber. Power of the words swelled and pressed down upon them. Borelin squeezed the lad’s hand to give him comfort.
As the final brand blazed forth the crypt came into full view around them. The room was indeed vast; extending in some places forty feet across, and the roof no less than twenty feet above them. The ceiling and walls were covered with dripstone, which functioned to heighten the feeling of immense size. The pointed pillars and dripping columns prevented a clear view of the ceiling and walls, and often the full extent of the room could not be determined. To Borelin, it felt like the great cavern just went on and on without ending.
Over the surfaces crawled ancient painted and graven images. In this holy place nothing had been disturbed for hundreds of years. As a result, some images were washed out or closed over by the living waters of the crypt. But most were clear enough still, their simple lines placed over the surface of the room before the dawn of time and the coming of the Seraph King. Here, the ancient images were uniform in their praise of Luial. Her glyph, two adjoining ovals, one large and one small, placed within a spiral, reappeared on every surface. Luial was the patron spirit of women, healing, birth, and the hearth, and her sign had always suggested to Borelin an infant within its mother’s womb. The divine spirit herself gazed down upon them from fifty sets of loving eyes. In the chapel above she was depicted as a matronly woman dressed in fine robes as she bowed before the Sky Father, but here she was depicted in the old ways. Naked, her massively fat body folded around her, and her small jovial face dwarfed by impossibly large breasts and sex. Borelin found it an uncomfortably promiscuous image, and turned his eyes back to the stone altar and the boy.
Rook’s golden eyes were wide as he took in the scene around him. But whether he was comforted or frightened, Borelin could not tell. His head kept turning from side to side as his eyes ran over everything. Borelin should have felt comforted by the fact that the influence of the holy waters had brought the lad back alert, but instead we was overcome by a sense of guilt. The lad had been so sheltered his whole life. Since infancy, Rook had lived and grown on the farm Borelin had laboured to build for them. All of the lad’s learning and education had come from Borelin, and other than practical matters relating to the maintenance of the farm, that had principally involved readings from Holy Scripture. Rook had never been to chapel, or played with a gang of friends, or even walked alone through a market. This desperate journey to seek healing from the chaplain had not been the way that Borelin had imagined introducing Rook to civilization. He should have brought him to Crainil several years ago. How many times had the lad asked to come to the town for supplies or service? He had even agreed to bind himself with the makeshift harness Borelin had made for him, and had worn it faithfully. But Borelin always had had an excuse about how Rook wasn’t old enough, or it wasn’t a good time, or there simply wasn’t enough room on the sled for supplies and boy. Now, faced with the prospect of losing him, Borelin was forced to admit that a large part of him had wanted to keep Rook forever sheltered from the world.
With instructions to undress the lad and prepare him, Clara proceeded back up the stepping-stones and disappeared into one of the alcoves surrounding the chamber. Borelin turned to Rook and helped him sit up. He began to strip the lad out of his light leathers.
“She’s nice,” Rook said, looking after the chaplain. “But a bit scary.”
Borelin nodded. “She’s a good woman. She’s going to fix you.”
“What’s she going to do?”
Borelin kept his tone matter of fact. “She’s going to have to cut your leg to fix it.”
Rook’s eyes turned from the walls to regard Borelin. “Is that going to hurt?”
“You’re going to need to be brave.”
Rook held his arms up over his head so that Borelin could pull off his sopping undershift, leaving him dressed in only wing harness, loincloth, and brace.
“Is Storm okay?” Rook asked, abruptly changing the subject.
“He’s fine. He’s sitting in the chapel upstairs.”
“In his box?”
“Yes. In his box.”
“I bet he’s hungry. I am.”
Borelin’s spirits rose. Rook hadn’t been hungry in days. “We’ll get you something to eat right after the chaplain fixes you,” he promised. “Whatever you like.”
“Ice cream?”
Borelin smiled. “It’s a deal.”
“Okay.” Rook nodded, then went back to looking at the carvings covering the ceiling and walls as Borelin undid the straps of the padded harness. “She looks a bit like the chaplain,” Rook said, pointing at the largest image of Liual.
Borelin chuckled, his eyes following the lad’s finger to the enormous female image. “I don’t think that you should tell her that.”
“Do women really look like that…down there?”
Shocked, Borelin blocked the lad’s view with his hand. He felt a hot flush in his face as his mind imagined Liual’s engorged sex on Clara’s body. “We can talk about it when you are older. Look at something else!”
Released from the harness, Rook’s wing frames reached up behind him. He tipped his head left and right as he stretched. Then he took hold of Borelin’s arm with his dainty hands, pulled it out of the way, and smiled up at him. Rook’s face was always fine-featured and beautiful, but when he smiled it became radiant. He was a vision of purity and innocence, and his smile pierced through Borelin’s calloused heart, as always. Borelin tussled the lad’s messy blonde locks with gruff affection.
Clara reappeared and approached them, carrying a large bucket in one hand. When she arrived at the altar, she placed it down and began to lift various items from it. Borelin watched her closely, and though her eyes did take in the lad’s undeveloped wings, she showed no reaction. Her movements were efficient and methodical. Bending down, she withdrew a large oilskin apron, which she unrolled and tied in place around her. Next, she brought out several bottles of paste and ointment, along with a large wad of bandaging, and placed these within easy reach above the boy’s head on the altar. She brought forth the ceremonial blade and withdrew it from its gilt scabbard. It was approximately eight inches long, with an ornate bone handle and a blade forged out of bronze. Its edge glinted in the ruddy light, hinting at a needle-sharp crystal coating. Rook’s eyes followed it warily from the table. Attached to the handle of the knife was a long stretch of golden chain, which the chaplain looped around the base of a firebrand and used to hang the knife down into the steaming holy waters of the pool. With that done, she returned, brought out a smaller knife and, gently pressing the boy back against the stone, carefully removed the makeshift brace. Rook grimaced a few times, but Clara’s movements, though firm, were quick and precise and he did not cry out in pain, but merely watched with a hushed expectancy and interest. Rope and wood were carefully placed aside. The leg sat exposed to the heat and air, swollen disgustingly and pinched red wherever the rope had cut into his skin. The chaplain then returned to the bucket to draw out and unfurl three leather bindings. Their straps were sturdy, clasped at either end and buckled with iron. She attached the bindings to iron hoops hammered into the base of the altar and strapped Rook down tightly in place. Borelin’s chest constricted but he kept his face calm and held onto the lad’s arm. Rook did not resist.
“Does that hurt?” Clara asked.
Rook shook his head.
Finally, Clara placed the large bucket within a small impression at the foot of the altar. On closer inspection, Borelin realized that one side of the altar was slightly higher than the other, and that the altar itself was actually carved so that the sides sloped down to a centre channel that ran its length. When released, the lad’s blood would run down and collect in the waiting basin.
Clara turned to Borelin. “We are ready. Yaelwe willing, I will bring good news.”
This was the moment Borelin had been dreading. He did not want to leave the lad, but he understood that Clara needed to be alone to perform the surgery. Honestly, he would be more of a detriment than help anyway. He bent over and kissed Rook on the cheek.
“You’re going to be okay,” he whispered. “I’ll be waiting upstairs. I’ll see you soon.”
Rook looked at him questioningly, but accepted the implications of his words. “You’ll take care of Storm?”
Borelin nodded.
“Make sure you feed him.”
“I will. I promise.”
Borelin forced himself to release the lad, then turned and walked away. The harsh fact that he might never again see Rook alive pressed hard upon him. His heart was in knots in his chest. He desperately wanted to run back, take hold of Rook, and tell him how much he loved him, but knew that if he started talking like that he would break down in front of the lad. So he kept his back straight, put one foot in front of the other, and slowly made his way out of the crypt.
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Post by Nedward Underhill on Dec 4, 2008 22:14:04 GMT -6
Chapter 3
Back in the chapel, Borelin paced back and forth between the benches. The door to the crypt had shut behind him, but all the same it wasn’t so far down to the holy altar. Sounds of the lad’s pain could very well reach his hearing. He got down on his knees to pray for strength and bravery for the lad, but his mind wouldn’t concentrate and the words wouldn’t come. When he couldn’t kneel, he sat, and when he couldn’t sit still, he walked. He told himself that he didn’t want to hear the lad scream, but his body disobeyed him. But again and again, he jumped up and walked over to put his hand on the closed door leading downstairs, his ears straining to hear some indication of what was happening below.
Rook had always been tiny. Borelin remembered how light Rook had been as a babe. Wrapped in a thin cloth, Rook had felt almost weightless in Borelin’s arms. Borelin had been afraid that his rough hands would accidentally break something that delicate. Borelin knew that he had been overprotective with the lad, but he couldn’t help it. The truth was that whenever he looked at Rook he saw that helpless babe with huge golden eyes, and translucent, half-formed, wings sprouting from his back like extra fingers. Borelin had done all he could to keep the lad safe while he grew. He had not trained the lad to be a soldier, but instead had acquired musical instruments for Rook’s education. He had raised the lad devout, and taught him to read. Together they prayed daily for the protection of the Sky Father. Even the wing harness, while notionally to provide the lad with a normal appearance, also satisfied Borelin’s need to ensure that Rook’s unformed wings were kept protected. Even the farm itself was a form of protection; isolated and alone, Borelin could raise Rook to lead a normal, though solitary, life.
As Borelin paced around the chapel, he felt the quiet security that he had built around the lad collapsing. It felt like all of his concern, all of his worry, and all of his efforts to keep the lad safe had been for nothing. Despite all of his lectures and precautions, Rook lay strapped to the altar, being cut open by a country chaplain, and most likely bleeding his life away. And as if that were not bad enough, the boiling water of the holy pool would be poured into the open wounds. With a pained grimace, he put his hands to his temples and tried to force the terrible image out of his mind.
Finally, he could bear it no longer. Borelin knew that if he didn’t keep himself busy, he would go out of his mind with worry. With a sudden determination, he walked across the room, lifted the wooden crate housing the ellit chick, and carried it over to a nearby bench. The bird had settled down, but a muffled chirping erupted as soon the box was moved. Borelin unwrapped the binding and carefully lifted the lid away, revealing the clamouring bird. Storm had been busy. All the fur and straw that Borelin had used to pack the bird safely in place had been pushed to the sides and the bird now lay within a large bowl-shaped housing inside the crate. Even as he watched, Storm struggled up towards the light, squawking piteously, only to fall over on his side and writhe around within the padding, struggling to right itself again. This process was repeated over and over, without any apparent fatigue.
With his whirlwind of activity, Storm had apparently rubbed off all the gummy liquid that had coated him at hatching. As he burrowed around within the crate, his downy white feathers stood out from his body, giving him a round appearance. His tiny clawed feet were lost within the puffed out feathers. Even his stumpy wings were balls of fluff, blending in with the feathers on his belly and back. Other than his black curved beak, his whole body was white. To Borelin, the bird looked not unlike a feral snowball. This wild impression was reinforced when Borelin put his hand in to steady the bird only to receive a sharp peck for his trouble. It didn’t hurt, but served to remind him of just how much of a fool venture he had been dragged into by the boy. Borelin sighed. Though he had promised Rook he would feed Storm, to be honest he didn’t even know what exactly to give him. Full grown, ellits were a fair-sized predator. Large specimens could grow up to two feet in length, with a wingspan six to eight feet across. Borelin figured they hunted small and medium-sized plain animals, like cobalt serpents, drift hoppers, and lesser fowl, or scavenged the remains of downed kills left behind by larger predators. But even if Borelin’s guess was right, Storm was just hatched. Instead of a two foot bird, he was barely a handspan tip to tail. What was to say that he could eat the same food as an adult? It would be a fine thing for Borelin to kill the bird with a piece of gristle. Storm continued to bobble and flop about clamorously inside the crate. For the moment, the question of Storm’s diet was moot anyway, as Borelin had been in such a hurry to get to town that he hadn’t brought anything. He did have a few frozen and dried rations tucked away in the emergency supplies on the sled, but they would almost certainly be inedible for the bird. Nothing for it but to ask for help.
Borelin replaced the lid and retied the bird’s box for carrying, muffling Storm’s piercing demands back to a muted protest. A few minutes later he was back in his heavy outerwear and carrying the crate back out of the chapel. The sun was going down now and the wind picking up, grabbing pockets of snow left by the storm and tossing them back and forth between the buildings like playing children. After being exposed to the moist air of the crypt, his leathers and bedclothes were saturated with water. The cold bit into him sharply and he could feel his clothes turning into ice around him. Fortunately he would not be going far.
Over at the sled, his silverbacks were sitting up and alert, no doubt on account of the presence of so many dogs in the town. Rand, Borelin’s lead male, kept chuffing softly and his ruff was spiked halfway up, as if he was not sure if the local dogs were friend or foe. Borelin went over and patted him reassuringly, and then stepped into place on the sled.
“Come on. Let’s head over to Corkrams and see if they are still in business. Hike!”
Borelin had purchased his team of silverbacks from Corkrams years ago. Like most of the kennels in town, it was a mom and pop operation. They bred only silverbacks, and had an excellent reputation. They were not the most expensive breeders in town, or the largest, but they produced well-trained, hardworking, and reliable dogs. Borelin hadn’t had cause to see them since making his purchase, which was itself a testament to the quality of the breeding. He guided the dogs along at a steady pace back to the main gates and then turned right and headed into the business sector in the heart of the town. With the evening coming on, the streets were mostly clear now, and Borelin had no trouble finding his way to the shop.
The Corkrams operated their business out of their home. It was a big old two-storey place, well built years ago, but now falling somewhat into disrepair. It wasn’t like they didn’t maintain the place. The front steps were scraped clear of snow, and the door had a fresh coat of paint. The wood and construction was merely showing its age. The Corkrams didn’t really have a business sign. The only indication that he had the right place was the carved wooden letters affixed by the front door reading, “the Corkrams.” Other than a hitching post out front, there wasn’t really anything to indicate that it was a business at all. But though there wasn’t much indication of the business to the human eye, the dogs clearly recognized the place. As they pulled up in front they became antsy and agitated, sniffing the snow and air enthusiastically and looking around. Borelin tied them up and then stepped down to knock on the door, his noisy package hanging from one hand.
After a minute, the door opened and a much older version of Ankur Corkram than the one Borelin remembered came into view. When he bought the dogs, Ankur had been a short but burly man of about forty, with a broad chest, wild unruly hair, and a vigorous personality. Now, though still stocky and solidly built, his wild hair had gone grey, his skin was sagging and greyed, and dark bags hung under his eyes. Borelin was shocked, and wondered if ten years had changed him so much as well. A wisp of home cooking puffed out with the warm air of the home. With a jolt, Borelin realized that he was probably appearing at suppertime. He pulled off his snow mask to present himself, silently berating himself for his poor manners.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Borelin muttered, “particularly at supper…”
Ankur cut him off. “What’s that? You’re going to have to speak up.”
Now Borelin remembered another thing about Ankur Corkram. He was hard of hearing, probably due to being perpetually surrounded by barking dogs. He tried again, louder and more clearly. “Mr. Corkram, I’m sorry to bother you…”
Hearing Borelin’s raised voice set Storm off on a flurry of muted chirps. The box wobbled in the air between them.
Ankur interrupted him again. “Bother me? What for?”
“No, that’s not what I meant. I don’t want to… Listen, perhaps I should come back later?”
“You want to bother me later?”
“No. I don’t want to bother you at all.”
Ankur cupped his hand to his ear. “What’s that?”
Borelin raised his voice further. “I said, I don’t want to bother you at all!”
Storm echoed his bellow with a sustained series of squawks.
“You’re not bothering me. Other than making me stand in the cold and keeping me from my dinner.”
“Yes. I’m sorry about that.”
There was a knock on the inside door behind Ankur and his wife’s shrill voice carried through the door to her husband. “Who is it?”
Ankur turned and shouted back through the door. “I don’t know! He hasn’t told me yet!” Turning back, he squinted up at Borelin. “Do I know you? You look vaguely familiar.”
Borelin was painfully aware of his frozen leather pants and his face chaffed with the evening wind. Storm appeared to be throwing himself repeatedly into the side of the crate. As if that wasn’t enough, Rand suddenly appeared at Borelin’s side, having dragged the team over to come over and take a look at what was happening. The silver hairs on his back stood up and he let out a low woof. The whole situation was very uncomfortable.
“I…”
“Waitaminute!” Ankur’s eyes took in the team. “Isn’t that Randovil the Third?”
“Well, I preferred just Rand…”
“…And Joshofot Icebather, I’d bet my life on it!”
“Just…Josh...” Borelin muttered. He had never been sold on the rather pretentious-sounding names the Corkram’s seemed to love to give to their litters.
“What’s that?” Ankur held his hand up to his ear.
Confirmed in his opinion that the conversation could not be going more poorly, he shouted, “Yes! I purchased this team from you about ten years ago!”
“Well, blow me down! Look at you,” he said beaming at the sled team. Over his shoulder, he barked, “Elsine! You’ve got to come see this!”
A moment later, Elsine had pulled open the inner door and joined them. Gusts of hot air plumed out from inside the house and turned white around them. She was dressed in a light grey cloth robe with her sleeves rolled up to mid forearm. Under her veil and headpiece, her sharp eyes took in the scene. “Well? What is it?”
Ankur seemed to have forgotten Borelin entirely. He had stepped up the stairs and was scratching Rand under his neck harness, the normally standoffish dog responding with a rumbled pleasure. “Come on now! Don’t tell me you don’t remember this little rascal!” Ankur called to his wife.
Elsine put his hands to her veiled face. “Oh my Lord! Look at you boys!” She too scampered past Borelin, lifting her robe up so she wouldn’t trip as she raced up the stairs to greet the dogs. “You are all so grown up!”
Borelin was left standing like a frozen statue while the couple doted on the dogs. His right arm was starting to get sore from the effort of holding up the wobbling bird box. Storm hadn’t let up on his demands either, keeping up an extended series of muffled squawks and shrieks.
After a minute, Elsine straightened and glanced back at the open door into the house. “We’re letting all the hot air out! And the biscuits are probably burning!” She turned to Borelin. “Now Corkram probably didn’t ask you, mister, what your business was. But whatever it is, we should get inside before we catch our death of cold. Now…” She paused, and looked down at the crate hanging from Borelin’s hand. “What in the heavens do you have there?”
Borelin sighed and held up the clamorous box. “Mrs. Corkram, this…is the business that has brought me to you.”
A few minutes later they were ensconced inside, standing around the Corkram’s round kitchen table, the bird box open between them. They had both had difficulty leaving the hounds outside, and had tried to convince Borelin to unharness them and bring them in with them, but he had managed to convince them that he wasn’t staying long. They accepted reluctantly, and not until after Elsine had quickly doled out four heaping bowls of innards from the Corkram’s personal feed stocks. For his part, Borelin insisted on paying for the feeding, and generously. Though in his heart he felt slightly put upon for being compelled to pay a princely sum for a feeding that had been thrust upon him, he thanked the elderly couple sincerely, as the dogs were indeed hungry – though hardly “starving” as Elsine had insisted. As it happened, it was a very good thing that he had insisted his dogs stay out of doors, for as the feed bowls appeared a huge old breeding female had risen up from the back corner of the house and came snuffling over to see what the commotion was all about. Borelin had mistaken her for a low sofa. He hardly dared imagine what would happen if Rand had been invited into her den.
There was no “store” inside the Corkram’s; the front door antechamber led directly into their living room. Their home was warm and cozy, though so cluttered with knick-knacks and furniture that the rather large room felt small and crowded. Evidently, Elsine had a passion for knitting, for her handiwork was draped everywhere. A new project lay half-finished in a wicker basket over between his and hers chairs near the fire. Not surprisingly, virtually all of the décor had a silverback theme. They even had a large decorative tapestry on one wall, rather whimsically depicting silverbacks dressed in human clothing, sitting down to play a game of tiles.
Storm trumpeted his demands for food at the top of his little lungs. “Oh, isn’t she a darling!” Elsine cooed, reaching in with her leathery hands to pat the chick. Storm chomped down on her finger. “Oh! She’s is starving!”
Borelin started. “She? I had thought it was a male. How can you tell?”
“With them birds,” Ankur replied, “there’s no way to tell…but for a woman’s intuition.” He grinned and winked, leaving Borelin uncertain as to whether or not he was serious.
“Just look at that face!” Elsine declared, sweeping off to rummage through the cupboards and cold storage. “It’s pretty as can be! And those eyebrows, or whatever they’re called, I think that’s it’s only the hens have them. What are you feeding her?”
Storm did have delicate feathers swooping up on each side of his, or her, head. Borelin tried to remember if the mother had had that feature, but drew a blank. He wasn’t convinced, but did not allow himself to get distracted. “I was hoping that you both might help me with that. I don’t have any experience with raising birds. I assume it eats meat,” he said, adopting a neutral gender for the sake of simplicity, “ but I’m not sure exactly how to feed it.”
Ankur leaned closer to hear over Storm’s squawking. “What’d you say?”
Elsine passed the message along in her shrill voice. “He says doesn’t know how to feed her!”
“I wouldn’t want it to choke!” Borelin added, motioning at his throat with a cupped hand.
Ankur crossed his arms and looked down at the frantic animal. “Well, we had a dog once whose teeth didn’t come in for a couple days. We just chewed its food for it. Didn’t we, Elsine?”
Elsine returned with a collection of foodstuffs and placed them on the table. “Of course we did! And besides, every mother bird chews the baby’s food for it. Then she just spits it back up and pushes it in the baby’s mouth.”
Borelin had no idea where Elsine got her information from, but as he had come for advice he couldn’t very well dismiss it. “Well,” he said, dubiously, “I guess that makes a sort of sense.”
Elsine fixed Borelin with a sharp look that clearly communicated her low opinion of his scepticism, and the common sense of men in general. “You have a woman in your life?”
“Ah…well…no.”
“You better get one.”
Ankur laughed, and patted Borelin good-naturedly on the back. “Ha! You better watch out. Before you know it, Elsine will be lining you up for a breeding!”
Borelin didn’t even know how to respond. In the end he just smiled awkwardly.
Elsine unrolled a chunk of soft pink meat from its oilpaper wrappings on the table. Her eyes darted at the chirping bird, measuring. “This should be good enough to start.” In the warm air of the room, the meat glistened with speckled moisture. Taking up a large cleaver from the table, she began chopping it into bite-sized pieces.
With the arrival of the food, Corkram’s bitch had again taken an interest in the goings on up on the table. She lifted her great tusked face up and rested her chin on the table top, sniffing furiously and drooling. Borelin could not help noticing that the size of her head was not that much smaller than the bird’s crate. Ankur swatted her away and scolded, “Talbitha Reignata Royale! Get that head down! You’ve eaten plenty.”
Talbitha subsided again, blowing out a disappointed gust of air that flapped her lips.
Elsine finished her chopping, and then efficiently wrapped about half of the meat away, leaving a fair sized pile of cubed meat on the table. Laying aside the cleaver, she lifted a piece and reached over to put it into Borelin’s mouth.
Borelin jerked his head back. “I’m sorry? What are you doing?”
“What do you think? You’re bird needs to eat! Listen to her. The poor darling! Chew it up and feed her. What do you think we have been talking about?”
“Ah…yes,” Borelin replied, realization dawning. He took the small cube in his fingers. It was quite slick with oil. “Um…what kind of meat is this, exactly?”
“That there’s icewyrm,” Ankur put in. “You’re getting the royal treatment!”
“Icewyrm. Raw.” Borelin looked hesitantly down at the slimy pink lump in his fingers. Off in the north, the great ice sheet began. Borelin had never seen it, but understood that it extended forever, a frozen endless expanse of nothing but ice and snow. Only the most determined peoples lived there, hunting the strange animal life adapted to life in or on the ice sheet. Icewyrms were one of these; massive snake-like creatures that could burrow into the very sheet itself. Borelin wasn’t much for bizarre food.
Seeing his hesitation, Elsine barked, “Oh come on! It’s just a piece of meat like any other. We can’t do it for you, or the bird will bond with us!”
Elsine’s comment got Borelin’s mind spinning. He didn’t want the bird to bond to him. This was Rook’s crazy pet. Honestly, if Borelin had his druthers he’d have no part of it. But Storm needed to be fed, and somehow it had fallen to him to feed it. With a sigh, Borelin put the raw lump in his mouth and started to chew. It had been salted heavily, and he found his eyes watering as he mashed the rubbery meat into mush. When he thought it sufficiently masticated, he drew it out of his mouth with his fingers and passed the disgusting lump down into the crate. Storm’s first few bites were equal parts finger and icewyrm, but after some practice Borelin managed to perfect the process of smearing the masticated flesh under the bird’s curved beak. For its part, Storm learned how to prop itself up on its stumpy wings and stretch itself up towards the food. Once the icewyrm was deposited on his beak he would fall silent momentarily, his tongue vigorously working to consume the food. When the meat was devoured, he would demand more. The bird’s appetite was voracious. Slowly, the pile of cubes on the table shrank and disappeared. When the bird’s screeching did not abate, Elsine ended up chopping more. Borelin’s jaw ached from chewing. Finally, having consumed roughly twice his body weight in meat, the bird’s caterwauling at last subsided. Inside the crate, Storm looked noticeably rounder. With a small whistle, he toppled over and slept.
Borelin placed the cover back over the box, leaned back heavily and breathed a sigh of relief. “Could I trouble you for a glass of water?” he asked, rubbing his jaw to get the ache out. His tongue felt fat in his mouth from all the salt he had consumed.
This mild request was evidently deemed sufficient cause to produce a substantial feast. Ignoring Borelin’s polite protests, Elsine rushed about placing milk and juice before him, along with cheese, a plate of various cold meats, her freshly made biscuits and churned butter. All of it was in quantities more suited for a feeding a troupe of soldiers.
Ankur, while helping himself particularly to the fresh baking, was no less overbearingly hospitable. Crossing the room, he produced a pair of shot glasses a small earthen jug and brought them to the table. “I think this calls for a celebration! A little balto?” he declared, uncorking the jug between them and filling the two small glasses with a brackish liquid.
Elsine turned on her husband. “He doesn’t want any of that,” she snapped. “You’re just looking for an excuse to start drinking!”
Ankur winked at Borelin conspiratorially. “And what if I am?”
For his part, Borelin was glad for Elsine’s intervention. Though many ignored the rule, the church frowned upon consumption of alcohol, and Borelin had never touched a drop in his life. The pungent aroma rising from the small pottery cup before him didn’t increase his interest either. The stuff could probably fuel a lamp. “No…thank you. I couldn’t. Thank you both. Honestly, you are too kind.”
Ankur deflated momentarily with disappointment, but then looked down at the drinks and shrugged. “Suit yourself. No use letting go to waste,” he grinned, tossing back the shot and then smacking his lips together with satisfaction.
Notwithstanding the ample spread in front of him, nowhere on the table was there a glass of water. Borelin decided to settle for milk, rather than make any further requests of the couple.
“So…umm…” Ankur snapped his fingers and ran his tongue around his lips, evidently trying to remember. “Remind me of your name again?”
Borelin used his standard response. “Actually, I prefer keep to myself, if you don’t mind.”
Elsine evidently did not feel constrained by respect for his privacy. “Oh posh! Is it such a church secret that you can’t tell people your own name?”
Ankur waved her off. “If a man wants his privacy that’s his own business. We know who you are. You’re that hermit, lives up north. Looks like you take good care of the boys out front; that’s enough for me. I just thought I’d ask, is all.” Ankur paused so as to give Borelin another chance to introduce himself properly. Borelin knew that he was being discourteous by not obliging them, especially after they had treated him with such generous courtesy, but held his ground. After a pregnant pause, Ankur shrugged and continued, “I’m really more interested in where you got the bird, and what your plans for it are.”
“I really haven’t decided what to do with it yet,” Borelin replied, carefully avoiding any discussion that might lead to a mention of Rook.
Elsine “accidentally” dropped some of the food from the table onto the floor, where it was promptly dispose of by Tabitha. “Have you named her?”
Ankur dismissed Elsine’s question before Borelin even had time to answer it. “Never mind that!” He reached over and plucked the shot glass from in front of Borelin. Placing it to his lips, he mused, “It could make for a good hunter. Ellits are powerful beasts.”
Borelin turned to Elsine and answered, “Her name is Storm.”
“Oh no!”
Ankur hadn’t made it out. “What was that?” he asked his wife.
“He says that he’s named her Storm! What kind of a name is that?”
“Not much of a name.”
“I know!”
Ankur shook his head, and turned back to Borelin. “Listen to her. She knows about good names.”
Elsine was already cooking something up. “She a fancy one. A little character. You need something…with a little pizzazz.”
“Really, it’s fine. And I appreciate all your help with the bird, but I really should…” Borelin moved to get up, but Elsine reached across and took hold of his arm, effectively holding him in place. “Where are you off to? You haven’t had a bite.”
Ankur shot back the balto and continued, “I know a fellow could help you train it. Down in Scepute.”
Not wanting to be rude, Borelin sank back into the chair and helped himself to one of the fresh biscuits. “Thank you,” he muttered, as sincerely as he could.
Elsine wasn’t listening. She was responding to Ankur’s last pronouncement. “You do? Who do you know down there?”
“Well, I used to know him. His name was…what was it…”
“We don’t know anyone in Scepute!”
“It was before your time.” He licked his lips, then clapped the glass upside-down on the table. “Handson! Marlin Handson… Or Macinot.”
“Marlin Macinot?” Borelin asked.
“No, it was the other way.”
“Macinot Handson?”
Ankur nodded, still pondering.
Borelin wasn’t quite sure what to say, so replied, “ I see.” In truth, he wasn’t quite sure he did.
Elsine was still stuck on the town. “When were you in Scupute?”
As well intentioned as they might be, Borelin was quickly coming to the conclusion that the price of coming to the Corkram’s for help was far more than the cost of four overpriced silverback feedings. It was already difficult for him to get a word in edgewise. Left to their own devices, the Corkrams would contentedly banter on all night. And if he didn’t put his foot down, he would remain their captive audience and victim as they pressed food, alcohol, and conversation upon him. He finished the biscuit in his hand, and stood. “Thank you,” he said firmly. “You have been more than kind. And your baking, Mrs. Corkram, is excellent…” But he had miscalculated the force of his behaviour. The couple sat back in their chairs, clearly taken aback. Looking down upon them, Borelin suddenly felt terrible about himself. In them he saw two generous old souls bending over backwards to help a virtual stranger. They were desperate only for the simple pleasure of some company, and after their overwhelming kindness, how did he repay them? With churlishness and dismissal. They had lives of their own. Stories, no doubt, like anyone else. Surely it was not too much of a hardship for him to take an interest? With an inward sigh, he changed course, “But unfortunately, I need to relieve myself.”
They both brightened immediately. “You’re in luck,” Ankur beamed. “We’ve got indoor facilities!”
The back door of the Corkram’s living room led directly into the silverback kennels, a long low attached structure that extended about thirty feet back from the house. “Indoor facilities,” however pleasant sounding, turned out merely be a closet-like room with a toilet seat and dark hole at the back end of the kennels. Ankur escorted him and revealed the indoor toilet with a proud flourish. The smell of animal and human waste was thick around them, and the dogs immediately began clamouring as the two of them passed. Borelin did his best to make his hum sound appreciative. It was obvious to Borelin that having a toilet inside was a terrible idea. While bedpans were an unpleasant necessity, at least one could eventually remove the noxious substance from the home and bury it at a convenient distance. Placed inside, the warmth of the indoor air prevented freezing and the smell emanating from the room was so bad Borelin had to breathe through his mouth to avoid gagging. The Corkrams’ efforts to provide a “homey” atmosphere to the closet, decorating its walls and seat with the ubiquitous silverback paraphernalia, did not do anything to make the experience more comfortable. Borelin finished his business and hurried back to the main house as quickly as he could manage.
When all was said and done, it took Borelin at least an hour and three more failed efforts before he managed to escape the Corkrams. During that hour, he barely said anything. There was never really an opportunity for him to speak. Ankur and Elsine continued to carry on conversations with each other in his presence, more often than not talking overtop each other. Mostly Borelin just nodded and agreed. Nothing else was really required. He was becoming increasingly anxious about Rook, but being unable to mention it, he appeared to have no imperative reason to leave. Borelin was well aware that common practice was to stay for hours, even overnight. Anything less was disrespectful to the host. So he stayed, growing increasingly grumpy about it. Due to his visit to the facilities, he had missed a good portion of the Scepute conversation, but he learned a great deal about Ankur’s deteriorating hearing, and Elsine’s knitting, and of course, all about their business, which evidently was not what it once had been.
“No one wants silverbacks anymore,” Ankur complained, tossing back another shot of balto. Borelin had lost count of the number of glasses the man had consumed. A mild slur had crept into his voice.
Elsine had by this point moved to her chair by the fire and was knitting methodically. “’Least not pure bred.”
Borelin hummed consolingly.
Ankur shook his head. “I tell you the truth. These days, shpeed is what everyone wants. All the new money is in Lutas.”
“…and mixed breeds.”
“And the mixed. Waste of time and money. Ruins a perfect breed.”
Elsine tched her lips. “There are some good mixed breeds,” she argued. “Would it kill you, Corkram, to raise a few?”
Ankur slammed the cup top down on the table. “Woman! I won’t have it! One of those abominations won’t set foot inside that door until I’m cold and dead in the ground!”
Borelin winced. Evidently, this was a familiar argument to them both.
“And that will come a lot sooner if we can’t afford to eat. A business needs customers!”
“They can’t even deep shleep!”
“Oh there’s no point talking to you!” To Borelin she quietly suggested, “You should take that damn bottle away from him. He’s had too much already.”
Ankur turned to Borelin. “What did she say?!”
“Ahh…” Borelin sighed. For a moment he put his head in his hands. Then, taking a deep breath, he set his shoulders and placed his hand flat upon the table and stood. Clearly, and loudly, he firmly announced, “I have to go.”
“What? She said you have to leave?!” Ankur turned angrily on his wife. “What has he done to you?”
“I never said any such thing!”
Borelin pushed himself to his feet and began wrapping up Storm’s box with the cords. “Mr. Corkram. Mrs. Corkram. Neither of you have told me to leave. I mean no offence.” Ankur opened his mouth to argue, but Borelin cut him off and proceeded, with a certain degree of desperation, “I am expected back at the chapel and I cannot keep the chaplain waiting any longer!” That was a mistake. Suddenly they were both brimming over with curiosity respecting his need for the chaplain, and peppered him with questions regarding the juicy details. The devout sought relief from both illnesses and transgressions from the holy waters of the chapel. For some reason, the Corkrams assumed that it was the later in his case.
“What have you done?”
“Oh, it’s not him has done anything. You’ve been wronged, am I right?”
“It must be serious if he came all this way.”
“Someone done something wrong to you? You know, maybe we can help. We know just about everyone in town.”
“I know you like to keep to yourself, but sometimes a listening ear is all one needs to get through hard times…”
Borelin beat a hasty retreat, refusing their questions as politely as he could. He didn’t even take the time to completely do up his overcoat, or put on gloves and touque. When the cold evening air slapped against him, he welcomed it. It was so much simpler when one’s opponents were cold, implacable, and uncaring. Even fleeing the house did not save him from the effusive friendliness of the Corkrams. They just followed right along outside, apparently oblivious to the cold. Now, as he secured the birdbox, he had to fend off fresh assaults as Elsine pressed the left over Icewyrm in his hands, and pointed out how he couldn’t possibly be staying at the chapel that night, and how he must need a place to stay, and how they had plenty of extra room! He would come back later, wouldn’t he? They would expect him. Feeling battered and bloodied by their relentless kindness, he raised the reins only to discover that Ankur was mingling amongst the sled team, passing out treats and cuddles. Borelin was forced to raise his voice to get the dogs attention. With as friendly a wave as he could manage, and final firm farewell, he turned the sled back towards the chapel.
Borelin had stayed a lot longer than he had intended at the Corkrams, and he raced through the town in a heightened state of anxiety. What had begun as an effort to occupy himself briefly and to keep his word to the lad had ended up an interminable disaster. He would not forgive himself if Rook had needed or asked for him, and he wasn’t there. Night had fallen, but fortunately the sky was clear and the twin moons were both present and full in the sky, basking the town in a pale light that allowed him to find his way along without difficulty. Naewin in particular was unusually large and bright, sitting low and fat on the horizon, but the elusive Urincia also graced the world with her presence. She only appeared about once each fortnight, and was often considered by the superstitious to be a portent of news or events of significance. Such was Borelin’s state of mind that he found himself pressing his lips to his knuckles in supplication to Yaelwe to make the news good.
As he turned into the main thoroughfare, the boisterous sounds of the great hall wafted over the snow to him. The great doors were still propped open, and great braziers burned in various places within, causing the hall to light up brightly. The townsfolk were evidently enjoying themselves. Laughter, loud conversation, and snippets of song competed for prominence, rising and falling like waves. Borelin turned away from the confused noise, made his way past the now closed gates of the town, and arrived in due course back at the chapel.
The first indication that something was wrong was that the front door to the chapel was locked. Borelin had not locked it, of course, and was surprised to find that someone had barred it since his departure. He pulled on the door for a moment as his mind registered the problem, and then stepped back up the stairs to think. Most likely Clara had finished the surgery, come and found him missing, and barred the door. Hadn’t she said she usually kept it locked? Borelin felt a hot flash of anger with himself for not putting his foot down sooner with the Corkrams. His eyes scanned over the building. The small residence attached to the chapel proper was dark, but on the far side of the chapel complex, Borelin saw light coming from a window on the infirmary. Borelin let out a long frustrated breath of air, and headed the dogs over to check it out.
The infirmary was just a single simple hall attached to the chaplain’s residence. It was a plain orderly building, with small square windows set at regular intervals along its outside wall to allow clear light to shine within during the daylight hours. Now bright beams shone from the windows like beacons in the night. Immediately over the double doorway into the building was a small wooden sign with the word “INFIRMARY” burnt into it in large unembellished letters, and above the sign was another of these small windows. As Borelin approached, the bright light shining out of the window shifted and moved, reflecting movement within. He hopped off the sled even before it stopped moving, grabbed Storm’s crate by its cords, strode forward and firmly shouldered open the double doors.
Even though Borelin had only been outside a few minutes, he had not dressed completely, and his finger and face were smarting with the cold. Between his rush to get back into the warmth indoors and his anxious worry about Rook, he used more force than necessary on the infirmary doors, making his entrance rather loud and dramatic. He stood for a moment with his back to the doors as his eyes adjusted to the sudden light. The room in front of him was sparse and orderly. Two rows of hard flat cots faced each other from either wall. Heavy woven dividers were draped from the low ceiling between the beds, and could be pulled forward in order to create individual stalls and provide some small degree of privacy to the occupants. Other than an oil lantern affixed above each cot, the walls and ceiling were bare of ornament or cover. Each stall had little more than cot, shelf, and a single wooden chair. Under the cots, the floor was composed of stone tiles, washed clean and gleaming dulling the flickering light.
Borelin was rendered speechless by the scene in front of him. Rook lay tucked into one of the cots, covered up to the chest with a blanket. He wore no shirt or brace, and his tucked wings could easily be seen even from across the room. His broken leg stuck out of the coverings, now encased in a hardening plaster cast and suspended from the low ceiling by a length of hanging wooden brace. He appeared to be sleeping. Hovering over him were three of the four other occupants of the room. Clara stood at the end of the cot, and with her stood two other women dressed in the white habits and black veils of nurses. Both of them appeared to have their hands on the boy. Across the aisle and several cots over towards where Borelin stood lay the room’s only other invalid; a large, bald, surly-looking fellow with a wrapped mid-section and bandaging covering his head. Clearly, they had all been very engaged and active a moment ago, but now everything stood still as if frozen in place. All eyes were turned on Borelin.
The large man struggled to get up, but was hampered by a serious of painful-sounding coughs. Borelin ignored him and, recovering himself, swept into the room yelling, “Clara, what the hell is this?”
The chaplain stepped towards him, barring his path. Though he could see anxiety in her eyes, she held up her hand confidently and put her hand on his chest, saying, “You need to calm down.”
“I need to calm down?” Borelin’s head was spinning. Ten years of secrecy, gone in a moment of carelessness! “I need to calm…! Clara,” he spluttered, “what have you done?”
Clara’s voice took on a steely tone. “We needed to move Rook and get his leg elevated. Surely you understand that I couldn’t very well carry him alone. I needed the assistance of my recovery nurses to bring him up and get him settled. This is my infirmary. This is where he belongs.”
Borelin went to raise his arm and push Clara aside, but had forgotten that he was still carrying the bird. The crate whacked clumsily against the chaplain’s leg causing her to cry out in pain and step aside. From within the box there was a muffled squawk. Borelin pressed forward and approached where the lad lay. The recovery nurses scattered before him, wide-eyed with fright. Rook remained dead to the world. Having reached Rook, however, Borelin did no know what to do. He carefully placed Storm’s crate down on the shelf next to the lad. Then he stood looking down at the lad’s frail body, simply watching him breathe. Rook was alive. That was the main thing, he told himself. It didn’t help. He could still feel every eye on him, which was, he thought, precisely the problem. He could not take away what they had seen.
Behind him, he heard Clara giving quiet directions to the nurses to attend to the coughing man. He heard her steady footstep approach him. “How is he?” he managed.
“He survived, as you can see,” she answered. “The bone appeared to have set properly. I did what I could to remove the festering.”
“The bone was fine,” Borelin echoed. “So what was wrong with him?”
There was a lengthy pause, as if the chaplain was waiting for him to turn and face her. He did not oblige her. Eventually, Clara said, “There must have been something in the wound,” but Borelin already knew the answer. She didn’t know. She’d cut the lad, bled him, and burned him with the holy waters, but she had no idea if any of it would cure him.
“What now?” he asked.
Another pause. “Other than prayer, and careful tending here in the infirmary, there is nothing more any of us can do. Yaelwe willing, he will survive.”
Borelin took a deep breath and calmed himself. He forced himself to accept the reality of the situation, and straightened his shoulders. Finally, he turned to face the chaplain. “Get these people out of here.”
“Rook needs constant care, Borelin. And Otal is too injured to leave.”
“I trusted you, Clara,” he growled.
“And I gave Rook a chance to live. Twice now.”
It was true. Ten years prior, it had been Clara who had taken them in when Borelin arrived on her doorstep with an infant in his arms. Clara was in her early twenties, and relatively new to the town, but she was pure of heart and took pity on them. Not only that, she secretly kept and tended Rook while Borelin sought out the site of his future home and began construction. As a chaplain, she often worked behind the scenes and kept the townsfolk’s secrets, so when she approached a young mother and arranged for a small supply of mother’s milk on a confidential basis, there weren’t too many questions. Those that there were, she deflected by mentioning that not all parents were blessed with a ready supply of milk. Fortunately, Rook was a quiet child. Still, it was touch and go a few times, as visitors to the chapel heard the odd sound coming from the chaplain’s residence. As well, extra clothing and blankets were needed, and more laundry needed to be done. Clara was of course prohibited by her station from courting or marrying, and Borelin’s frequent returning visits did not go unnoticed. People began to gossip about the young chaplain, and to approach Borelin and try to engage him in conversation. He did his best to avoid human contact, but he needed tools, supplies, and hired hands. More than one fellow gave him a knowing smile and wink. Women dropped less-than-subtle hints about how the open plain was no place for a young family, and how there was room in town for someone wanting to get their own place. Borelin just kept his head down and tried not to react. It was hard on Clara. She was devout, and had worked hard for her chaplaincy, and each day she felt like she was risking her reputation and her future. Borelin worked like a madman, knowing full well that the babe could not be hidden long. Finally, after six long weeks, he was able to take the lad and go. He knew then, just as he knew today, that there was no way that he could properly repay her.
Borelin felt his anger slipping away. Across the aisle, one of the nurses tended to the injured man, while the other loosened the cords tying up the woven divider to the wall and let it fall. To Clara, Borelin said, “You couldn’t have drawn the curtains before bringing Rook up?”
“Well, until you started slamming the doors, Otal was sleeping.”
Borelin winced.
“Now, if you don’t mind,” Clara continued, “perhaps you can release the curtain behind you, and we’ll close the boy in from view.”
They worked in silence for a minute, Borelin kicking himself for making a bad situation worse. Finally he nodded towards the nurses and asked, “Can they we trusted?”.
“Jaime and Alleigh? They’ve been with me for several years. I’ve found them trustworthy, but they are young, and impressionable. I’ll talk to them, but you need to understand. People around here don’t normally get visited by heavenly beings. They were both…shaken by the experience.”
“He’s just a boy,” Borelin grumbled.
“To you, maybe.”
The heavy woven dividers helped, but certainly wouldn’t prevent anyone walking down the aisle from seeing Rook. While pulling the curtains into place, Borelin had discovered Rook’s effects stacked up neatly on a chair next to the bed. He picked up the padded harness and regarded it. So much effort put into hiding the lad, only to have it dissolve in one careless moment. He heard Clara move off and call the girls to her. Otal’s deep voice asked a question, but it didn’t register in Borelin’s mind. He stood fixed in place, running the harness through his hands like a noose. The events of the last few days processed slowly through his mind. There were so many things he wished he had done differently. He had yelled at Clara, but she was not to blame, of course. He was angry with himself. Though guided by the best of intentions, still he had still failed to protect the boy. If only he had not left the chapel tonight. If only he had fixed the wound properly. If only he had not let Rook run off on the day of the snow giant. If only—
With a shake of his head he forced his thoughts back under control. He learned long ago that there was no point in dwelling on what might be or what might have been. The only sensible thing to do was to deal with the current situation, and make the best of it. The facts were that he was in a remote town on the edge of civilization. For ten years he had raised the lad without discovery or incident. Even now, knowledge of Rook’s existence remained essentially unknown. Notwithstanding Borelin’s dramatic entrance, it was unlikely that the injured man, Otal, had seen anything, as he had been overcome by a fit of coughing. As for the recovery nurses, Clara had influence over them. Hopefully they would understand that it was in their patient’s best interest that his true nature remain a secret. He told himself that the greater concern of the moment was Rook’s immediate survival and recovery. He told himself that even if the truth were revealed, it would not spread beyond the small northern town. He told himself that in a few days time, this would all blow over. Rook would be on the mend, and the two of them would be able to leave Crainil and return to their quiet existence on the farm.
Unfortunately, he didn’t believe it.
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Post by Nedward Underhill on Dec 21, 2008 17:47:11 GMT -6
Chapter 4
Maciael was tired of waiting. He had been kneeling in one of the alcoves of the great cathedral, quietly reciting prayer sequences for an hour already. The rich velvet surroundings aided his meditations, and the prayers still preserved an inner calm, but his heart was no longer swept away by the words. His lips moved, repeating the soothing words in a low voice, but his eyes stared through the latticed screen, fixed on the gilded doors inlaid in the circular iconostasis at the church’s heart. Still the holy Fathers did not emerge from the chancel.
The alcove was well positioned to allow Maciael to have a full view of the chancel while remaining himself unseen. The vaulted sanctuary of the cathedral surrounding the cloistered chancel, with its curving rows of deeply polished wooden pews, was in turn bordered by a procession of marble pillars. Beyond the pillars the ceiling lowered to a dozen feet in height, and a wide red carpet circled the edge of the room. The prayer alcoves set into the outside walls of the worship area were designed to be discrete in order to aid the devout in their private contemplations. Each recess was richly carpeted and the walls padded to insulate sound. Their intricately latticed doors closed on well-oiled hinges and obscured the identity of the occupant from public view. Within the shadow of one of the marble pillars, and hidden behind the latticed door, Maciael shifted his knees on the red silk kneeler and quietly adjusted the back scabbard holding his great sword “Aduro” between his wings. Beneath his silken robes his moulded breastplate pressed against his skin. The summons had been urgent, and this delay was disturbing. Earlier, he had heard voices within the enclosed sanctuary, but now everything had fallen silent. It was impossible to imagine someone engaging in an act of treachery or violence within the sacred confines of the holy of holies, even in this day and age. Still, there was no question that something had gone seriously wrong.
The summons from the Chancellor had been delivered by a panting cherub who had evidently been admonished to fly with all haste across the city to find Maciael. He had given the boy five silver for his trouble, wondering at the wisdom of using a common carrier for their private business. Already too many were associating the Knight of the Dawn with the office of the Holy Chancellor. The envelope had not even been properly sealed. The Chancellor’s elegantly flourished handwriting was easily recognizable, however, and read simply, “Nitidus and Crinis move against us. Come.” Maciael had been shocked by the terse message. Abban Nitidus aligned with Remense Crinis against them? From any other source he would have discounted the pronouncement out of hand. Not only had the two powerful houses been feuding for generations, but Crinis had personally pledged his support to Maciael and House Diluculo not three months past. Maciael had spent several days hunting with Crinis, hosting the sour older seraph and his retinue extravagantly to demonstrate the benefits of friendship with the Knight of the Dawn. When Crinus dropped that he did not keep temperance, Maciael had even brought Crinis further into his confidence by introducing him to several of the aged reserves in the secret Diluculo cellars. Crinis had been appropriately impressed by the contraband collection, and had shared in several exquisite bottles. Throughout, he had given no indication that his support was anything but unwavering. Apparently, Crinis was either a skilful liar or he had been turned against them very recently.
There was no question that such a development would be a serious threat to the controlling orthodox on the King’s Council. Nitidus was notoriously zealous, and had been fomenting trouble for ages. If the two great houses of Nitidus and Crinis had set aside their differences, they would be a powerful influence on the Council, and in Heaven. Both houses were martial by nature; combined they could even vie with House Diluculo for military prowess and numbers. They also had deep connections with the merchants guild, Nitidus in particular due to their ownership of several rich sarsonite mines in the south. Maciael had destroyed the summons, had quickly strapped on weapons and armour, and had flown directly to the cathedral to meet with the Chancellor. The prayer alcove had always served as a useful means to ensure a private visit, and so Maciael had simply assumed that he was to wait as usual for a sign that the church was clear. Now, as the minutes slipped by, he began to have his doubts.
No one was permitted past the iconostasis doors and into the holy of holies but those of divine office. Still, if the Chancellor did not emerge soon, Maciael made up his mind to enter within the sacred space and find out what was causing the prolonged delay. He had definitely heard the Chancellor’s voice when he entered the Cathedral earlier. The other voices had not been familiar to him. Maciael had assumed them to be Fathers of the church, attending to a private religious observance. The more he considered it, the less that assumption seemed right now. Thinking back, the indistinct words had not had the sign-song quality of prayer. Maciael stopped his mind from leaping to conclusions. He must have been rattled more than he had realized by the Chancellor’s dire message. Not only was the Chancellor within the holy of holies, he was the head of the King’s Council. He carried the King’s seal and spoke with the King’s voice in matters of church and state. No one would dare raise a hand against him. Such a profane act would not only damn the wrongdoer, but would most certainly bring the full weight of the King’s justice against him. On top of which, there had been no shouting or sounds of violence. The gilded screen surrounding the chancel was open to the sanctuary’s great domed ceiling; surely he would have heard something if there had been trouble.
Maciael forced his attention back on the prayer sequence one final time. Once more he worked his way through the prayers of contemplation, repentance, absolution, and ascension. One of the candles surrounding the icon of the Sky Father before him guttered in its crystal holder and flicked out. Within the church all was quiet. With a quick prayer of forgiveness for what he was about to do, and a kiss upon his open fingers, Maciael stood and stepped out of the alcove. Stepping across the red carpet, he flicked his wings lightly to stretch them for flight. It was only the lightest of sounds, but it caused an immediate reaction. With a sudden burst of activity, a seraph flew out of the chancel and into the great vaulted ceiling. Maciael stopped in his tracks. The woman soaring upwards was dressed in the flowing white robes of the Order of Mercy. Her wings were broad and delicate, perfectly sculpted and bedecked with gold-embroidered tassels. Her feathers were palest yellow, smoothed and coated with sparkling silver polish. In her hands she held a long, thin, ornately decorated staff. Even before she turned he eyes to him, Maciael recognized her. Nyssa Cracovia, the stunningly beautiful daughter to the King. She was deeply involved in the Order, but due to her vanity had cast off the customary plain grey garb in preference for lavish outfits and finery such as she now wore. Further, she was a raving zealot, to the point of refusing to wear the traditional veil and head scarf proper for a woman. She wore only the most transparent of veils, held in place around her flowing blonde locks by a thin ribbon of gold at her forehead. Now she paused in mid-flight and turned her eyes down to Maciael. Her eyes flashed with a curious combination of haughty distain and fear. For a moment, the two of them regarded each other; Maciael standing on the deep red carpet at the edge of the sanctuary, and Nyssa hovering above the chancel. Her mouth opened as if to speak, and then closed again. With a flick of her wings, she turned and flew out of one of the high open windows within the cathedral’s domed ceiling, and was gone.
Maciael watched her fly off, a terrible dread creeping up his neck. A few strong beats of his wings thrusts him over the ranks of the pews and brought him to one of the gilded doors leading into the raised chancel. When he pushed on the door, it was freezing to the touch, and would not budge.
“Chancellor!” Maciael shouted through the door. The sanctuary had again fallen into silence. With a shock it suddenly occurred to him that with six Fathers and more than twenty staff, the cathedral should not have been so perfectly undisturbed for the last hour.
“Chancellor! Djannus! What’s going on in there?”
No answer. Maciael hurled himself into the air and over the tall iconostasis walls. As the chancel came into view, he gasped in shock and horror. The entire inside was covered in hoarfrost. It appeared to flow out from the ice-encased fount, across the carpeted floor and claw its way up the walls. And standing next to the fount was Djannus Insulis, High Chancellor of the church and the King, frozen and encased in ice.
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Post by Nedward Underhill on Dec 23, 2008 14:41:05 GMT -6
There was no time to think. Maciael alighted with the chancel with Aduro already in his hands. The ice beneath his sandals was slick and treacherous, forcing him to flutter his wings to keep balanced. Within the frozen sculpture, Djannus’ body was locked in a contemplative stance. His hands rested on the edge of the fount, and his head looked down into where the holy waters should have sat, as if he were forever performing a sacred reading. His mouth was open, suggesting that he had been mid-sentence when the dark prayers were cast upon him. The image was ghastly. The Chancellor’s skin was mottled black and blue by the malevolent cold. His fingers were bent like claws, and his deep-set eyes were dark and cavernous as they stared blankly down.
Raising up the great blade with both hands before his face, Maciael breathed the prayer word for which the sword was named. “Aduro.” All seraph able to wield prayer had a cynosure; through it the words of god took force and power. Maciael’s touchstone and focus was his sword. At his spoken word fire burst forth from the silver blade, licking over its brilliant surface and illuminating the enclosed space of the chancel.
With the godsfire burning, Maciael closed his eyes and began to pray in earnest.
“Cum tribularer invocavi Dominum Et ad Deum meum clamavi exaudivit de templo sancto suo vocem meam Et clamor meus in conspectu eius introibit in aures eius Et commota est et contremuit terra Et fundamenta montium conturbata sunt Et commota sunt quoniam iratus est eis Ascendit fumus in ira eius Et ignis a facie eius exarsit!”
As he spoke a wave of heat gathered around them. His red and gold robes puffed out around him and his curled hair flew back from his face. Maciael put his heart into the words, opening himself to the power of the Sky Father. As always the touch of fire in his blood made his spirit sing with glory and power. The flames raced over the surface of Aduro, billowing out and shooting high above them. His hands shook briefly as the power overwhelmed him, and then stilled again as he completed the incantation. When he opened his eyes, they burnt with an inner fire. All around him within the enclosed space of the chancel the hoarfrost melted and began to stain the red, carpeted floor. Maciael released Aduro with one hand and placed his palm on the frozen statue of the Chancellor before him. Then he breathed upon the ice, shattering the unholy magic and releasing the limp form within.
Sheathing Aduro, Maciael felt a familiar ache of loss as he released the holy power within him and caught the old man’s body in his arms before it hit the ground. The gold leaf of the iconostasis walls began to cool, fading from a white heat but still radiating warmth around them. Djannus was beyond saving. His drenched black robes pressed against his body, displaying a significant belly and flat, feeble, chest. His head hung back at an unnatural angle and his eyes were rolled up in his head. A long wheeze whistled out of the old seraph’s mouth like a slowly deflating balloon. When it finally stopped, his body lay cold and unmoving in Maciael’s arms.
Maciael had acted without thinking, in shock and revulsion at the sight of the evil rite. A part of him had even hoped that Djannus might have somehow survived the ordeal. Now, with the hoarfrost banished, and the dead body of the Chancellor limp in his arms, he began to consider the implications of the situation. Not only murder in the cathedral but hoar magic in the holy of holies! And the princess Nyssa responsible? The situation was beyond comprehension. Even without the murder, how could she have learned the dark rites? The church had denounced hoar magic back in the age of the crusades, and was thought eradicated along with the last of the monstrous Nephilim, dark spawn of the unholy mating between races. Had the dark worship somehow survived the victorious crusades and been preserved in secret? How could it have escaped notice when practiced within Heaven itself?
Maciael’s racing thoughts were interrupted by the sound of door flying open and the echo of shouting voices entering the cathedral. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he realized that he was seriously compromised. To the innocent observer, his mere presence within the holy of holies was a criminal transgression, never mind being found holding the dead body of the High Chancellor. No one but he had seen the princess, and so all suspicion would be upon him. Not to mention the political damage that he would suffer by the irrefutable evidence of a covert meeting between House Diluculo to the cathedral. Gossip and rumour would fly over the city like wildfire, and none of it would be good. His friends would suspect him, and his enemies would have the perfect attack against him. From the sound of the approaching voices, he only had moments before discovery. With a quick decision, Maciael lowered the body of the Chancellor down onto the wet floor of the chancel, and then took flight. As he emerged above the iconostasis walls he looked around furtively, but to his relief he was still alone within the sanctuary. Then, beating his wings furiously, he raced up into the great dome of the cathedral and out into the open skies over the city.
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Post by Nedward Underhill on Jan 4, 2009 21:52:41 GMT -6
By the time Maciael had alighted at his manse, he was furious. The sequence of events had been far too coincidental to be an accident. From the moment he had received the mysterious summons to the discovery of the heinous murder, it was clear now that he had been played for a fool. The whole thing had been a trap, and he had blithely waltzed right into it. How long had he been praying within the alcove, while the Chancellor’s life was snuffed out not fifty feet away? Still, he astonished by the sheer magnitude of the endeavour. The sin could not have reeked more foully. Murder, a violation of the church, and the demonstration of dark magic within the most sacred of places; it all combined into an attempt to frame him with the most despicable crime imaginable. And, though he hated to turn tail and run from a challenge, but for his quick flight the crime would indeed have landed squarely on his shoulders.
The stain of the melted hoarfrost had seeped into his garments, which had then cooled to stick to his skin as he flew over the city. Maciael cast off his sodden robes and sent his page, Divio, fluttering off to get him something warm. The boy was so terrified by Maciael’s tone that he brought back a huge armful of options. With a few silent gestures, Maciael selected a heavy white shift, then a deep burgundy velvet vestment adorned with intricate silver and gold embroidery. Divio had been smart enough to bring several complementing gold necklaces and armbands. It was just such foresight that kept him in Maciael’s service.
“Get me Pax,” Maciael commanded, strapping Aduro back into place over the vestment. Gathering up the unused attire, and with an awkward bow, Divio raced off to obey.
Maciael returned back outside to think. The Diluculo manse occupied a place of prominence on the edge of seventh, and highest ward in the floating city. Where Maciael stood, looking down from the great balcony off of his master bedroom, the residence actually perched over the side of the city’s edge. Beneath him the sheer cliff walls fell away more than fifty yards down to the sixth ward, with its grand houses of the great merchants and lesser nobility. Maciael’s gaze was not on them however, but rather he gazed down at the veil of white clouds surrounding the vast lower city. Far beneath them, the fallen world of man was lost from view, covered over by a sea of clouds that stretch off to the horizon. Maciael ruffled his wings in anger, reminded by the scene before him that events moved beyond of his sight and ken.
It irked that he had fled the scene of the crime, and it wasn’t like him. Maciael had a strong need to strike back. He was, after all, not one for cold calculation. That had been the part of the High Chancellor. “And look where it got him,” he muttered. Maciael knew he was impulsive. But his instincts were generally reliable, and he had come to trust them. He acted with force and passion, striking decisively against his enemies. But even he knew that he would have to fly carefully in this matter. A brazen charge of conspiracy, murder, and dabbling in dark rites brought against the King’s daughter without overwhelming support in the council would almost certainly lead to a speedy execution, or worse.
Besides, surely the princess had not acted alone. Who else conspired against him? Nitidus and Crinis were not the only houses that stood to benefit from his falling from the King’s grace. Maciael knew he had plenty of enemies. Save for Cracovia, Diluculo was the most powerful house in the kingdom. They governed over six provinces, including that of the mountainous Ecciae, rich with gold and silver mines, and the vast snowy plains of Aboria, rich with fields of golden cuienne. All told, they had a standing army of more than four thousand seraph, and could levy at least four times that many human conscripts, if necessary. House Diluculo’s influence extended not only to due to its size and military power, however, but also because of Maciael’s renowned strength of character. He maintained a prominent orthodoxy in his religious observances, honoured the holy traditions of celibacy, and had managed to escape, or suppress, virtually all scandal associated with his name. Indeed, for many he was recognized as the epitome of all that was good about the orthodox tradition; conviction in faith, honour in principle, and an unswerving dedication to see justice done. This reputation, in combination with the whispered influence of the High Chancellor, had allowed his ascension through the rank and file to be become honoured with as Knight of the Dawn, first among the knights, and King’s champion. If he were cast down, it would be a victory not only for all those who aspired to gain the King’s favour, but also would be a massive triumph for the zealots.
Nyssa was, of course, a notorious zealot. But though she carried on dramatically about inclusive society and women’s issues, Maciael would never have suspected her of anything so wicked and ruthless. Maciael had always seen her as the sort of woman who would champion her “noble causes” until such time as she settled down to raise a family, her good works ultimately no more than a mere advertisement of good breeding. The Queen had little patience for her outbursts. As for the King, though he might nod along with her occasional tirades, and even sympathize with her zeal, Maciael was confident that, ultimately, even he recognized that her starry-eyed notions were impractical for the day-to-day governance of the kingdom. Nyssa might be adored for her beauty, or admired for her zeal, but certainly never taken seriously in matters of church and state. If she had masterminded this diabolical plot, Maciael would have seriously misjudged her.
A light cough behind him on the balcony brought Maciael out of his contemplation. Maciael felt his back stiffen, and pushed himself away from the railing so as to hide his body’s reaction. Paxiamon Glauca, or as he preferred, just “Pax,” was an essential member of Maciael’s inner circle, but he did not like the seraph. He was a short, fawning, rotund man, with plump limbs, rosy cheeks, and the tightly curled hair of a cherub. But there was nothing sweet and gentle about the man. From beneath those golden curls, he regarded the world through cunning beetle-black eyes. With his superiors he was all civility and grace. To his subordinates, however, his temper was infamous and his tongue was vicious. He rarely smiled, and when he did it was not a pleasant sight. In addition, an old injury had stunted the growth of one of his wings, giving him a misshapen appearance and limping flight. But though imbalanced, he had overcome his disability and had perfected the ability to fly with perfect silence. This ability he enjoyed using to sneak up on his prey, or simply to leverage a conversation in his favour. It was Pax’s job to know everything there was know about what was going on in Heaven. He gathered information from numerous sources, sifting through and weighing it for nuggets of truth. He was particularly good at his job. Blessed with an encyclopaedic memory, he seemed to be aware of every bit of new gossip, whether political or personal, the names of all new arrivals and departures, the details of royal edicts and church proclamations, any new sentencing or royal justice of note, often long before such matters became public knowledge. Maciael never asked how Pax got his information. It was really better that he didn’t know.
Maciael turned to regard the short seraph. Pax stood in the doorway, almost doubled over in a low bow, with face down and both palms crossed over his lips. His dull grey wings drooped down to the floor on either side of him. Everything about his liegeman’s posture was intended to convey utmost respect and courtesy. But Maciael saw Pax’s dark eyes repeatedly flicking forward to measure him and dismissed the affected courtesy with a lift of the hand. He strode past his prostrate form and back inside. Over his shoulder he stated, “Close the door behind you. There is a lot of work to do.”
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Post by Nedward Underhill on Jan 8, 2009 23:41:16 GMT -6
Maciael led the way into his private study; a vaulted chamber decorated with an assortment of his commendations and trophies, along with a few stuffed leather sitting stools and a massive stone desk in the centre of the room. Seating himself behind the great desk, he gestured for Pax to make himself comfortable.
Maciael got right to the point. “The Chancellor has been murdered.”
Pax paused for a fraction of a second while halfway down, and then settled onto the stool. “I had thought I might inform you of his Holiness’ demise,” he answered, calmly. His black eyes watched Maciael intently, as if he suspected his lord might leap across the table at any moment to strike at him. “Though I heard nothing of murder,” he added, quietly.
So. Pax had already heard news. Maciael wasn’t at all surprised. “I assure you it was murder. And most foul.” Maciael quickly recounted the events surrounding his discovery. He was pleased to see that even his hardened liegeman’s face blanched at his description of hoar magic within the holy of holies. Perhaps Pax retained something of his soul after all. When he finished, Pax made no immediate response.
“Well?” Maciael prompted.
Pax had the obnoxious habit of licking his lips as he considered his words. He sat before Maciael, licking his lips and gazing off at the high ceiling. At last, he replied cautiously, “Is that to be the official version of events, my Lord?”
Maciael’s temper flared. “It’s not a version. That’s what happened!”
Pax’s wings fluttered anxiously. “Certainly, my Lord. Naturally. It’s just that…would it not be better that you were not there at all?”
Maciael was too frustrated to sit still. He rose up and began pacing. “Of course I’m not suggesting that we go out of our way to advertise my involvement in the murder. Far better I had never gone! But did you not hear me tell you that Nyssa and I saw each other?”
“Well…” Pax paused to lick his lips.
Maciael motioned with his hand for his man to be out with whatever he had to say.
“Are you quite sure that no one saw you?”
Maciael scowled. “I said it was so. Besides, if they had, the King’s guard would already be beating in our windows.”
“Well then, it strikes me,” Pax continued, “that Nyssa won’t be able to challenge your word. If she was the only one to see you, the only way that she can place you at the scene is by admitting she was there as well, which would require that questions be answered with respect to her presence.”
Maciael nodded, considering. “What are you suggesting?”
“Only that you appear as shocked and surprised as anyone else with the news. And,” Pax paused momentarily to wet his lips, “subject to your thoughts, of course, that you make no mention of hoar magic or murder to anyone.”
“What?! Surely you are not suggesting that I allow a hoar witch, and her cabal for all I know, to escape without being rooted out, exposed, and destroyed? Can you not see the magnitude of this threat?”
Pax fluttered again in the face of Maciael’s passion and bowed his head. “Most certainly. As you say. Of course. No disrespect intended, my Lord.”
The pandering only infuriated Maciael more. “Don’t give me that! I can see you disagree with me. Out with it.”
“Oh no. I agree with you entirely, my Lord. It’s just that…”
Maciael sighed. One of these days he would cut that man’s tongue in half so he couldn’t lick his lips.
“I haven’t really had a lot of time to digest your news, but this…development…might not be so terrible for you, Lord. Or House Diluculo.”
“Explain.”
“Well, you needed the Chancellor primarily to advance your interests, and to get into the good graces of the King. You recall that Abban Nitidus’ son was considered a far likelier candidate for the Knight of the Dawn. Your father, God rest his soul,” Pax touched hand to lips to honour the dead, “was reluctant to match the generosity of House Nitidus, and you were recently come into your station. Many thought you might take on a Lady and settle down, rather than maintaining your fidelity to the Order…”
“Get to the point,” Maciael interrupted.
“Certainly. The point, my Lord, is this. Having become virtually equal to the Chancellor within the Council, your need for the Chancellor has passed. Further, a weakened church could mean that the Order of the Dawn will ascend in influence and authority. Particularly if there is…a rumour…that the Chancellor, and perhaps others within the church, were dabbling in dark magics…”
“You said that I should not say anything about the hoar rite.” “Exactly so. Far better that someone else do that, and the Order be forced to investigate it. Surely we can arrange for that.”
Maciael was fascinated and horrified by the scope of Pax’s devious plan. If successful, more than a few wings would be severed. Djannus Insulis hadn’t been a friend exactly, but they had worked closely together for years, and he had been a devout seraph. Maciael had borne a great deal of respect for him. To falsely ruin his family name for Diluculo’s advancement was not something of which Maciael would be proud. But Pax was giftedly shrewd. Maciael could simultaneously suppress the church’s influence and increase the authority and power of the Order, which of course would mean his own authority.
Maciael sat back down at the desk, and rubbed his jaw, considering. After a long silence, he said, “I want the real culprits destroyed.”
“My Lord, I suspect that the Order would need additional authority and powers to pursue such crusade. Such authority could allow you to root out the source of the dark magic. Once that is known, I have every confidence in you ability to…ensure that justice is done.”
“Crusade? There has never been a crusade within Heaven, or against Seraph.”
“Perhaps I chose my word poorly.” Pax paused. Just as Maciael was about to speak, he continued, “But then,” Pax licked his lips, “Seraph have never before wielded hoar magic…”
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Post by Nedward Underhill on Jan 12, 2009 23:23:13 GMT -6
Their private deliberations were cut short by the arrival of Cidurco Duans, Captain of the Diluculo Guard, pursued immediately by a red-faced and frantic Divio. Duans threw open the doors and strode commandingly across the room, casting aside Divio’s harrying efforts with a few backward snaps of his wings. Few would have dared barge in upon Maciael in such a way, but Cidurco seemed to be untouched by fear. He was a hard faced, no nonsense kind of seraph who could crack the whip with the best of them. Whereas most seraphs were light on their feet, Cidurco was thick and muscular, with a ponderous kind of gait, almost like a human. Indeed, Maciael well remembered how, during the Captain’s rise to authority, a competitor has circulated a rumour that Cidurco had human blood in his ancestry. There was no merit to it, naturally, but the story had taken flight and had almost sunk the Captain’s career. When he discovered the source, Maciael had dealt with the perpetrator so ruthlessly that no one ever dared whisper it since. Maciael respected the seraph’s authority and directness, and knew that he had the man’s unswerving loyalty and devotion, so made allowances for his occasional breach of etiquette.
Despite his rank, the Captain was dressed, as always, without elegance. Beneath his square jaw he wore a simple chainlink hauberk and leathers, surmounted by an unadorned sarsonite breastplate and calf-length skirt. His one ornamentation was actually a gift from Maciael, a blood red scabbard and belt, inlaid with precious stones and traced with interwoven gold and silver thread. In it rested the Captain’s two-handed broadsword.
Maciael waved Divio off, and turned his attention to Cidurco. “Captain. What news?”
Duans ignored Pax entirely, which was not surprising. It was well known that there was no love lost between the Captain and the Diluculo’s Master of Secrets. The Captain did not reply, but merely stood with his head respectfully bowed, palms together and with the tips of his fingers on his lips. Though he continued to give no acknowledgement of Pax’s presence, it was clear that he was disinclined to speak in the other seraph’s company.
“You can speak in front of a Pax,” Maciael commanded. “Whatever the news, I want him to hear it.”
Cidurco nodded curtly, accepting the order, and produced a royal writ from out of a silk pouch hanging from his waist. He handed it across the table to Maciael. “Milord, there is an small escort arrived from the palace. They have asked for you attend to the King immediately. They will not state their business.”
Maciael accepted the writ, a cold chill running down his spine. He lowered his head and pretended to study the royal seal while he regained his composure. It certainly appeared genuine; a winged shield emblazoned with a four-pointed star set within an inverted triangle, with a flowing banner beneath showing the CRACOVIA name in bold letters, all surmounted by a four-pointed crown. After a reasonable pause, he Maciael broke the golden wax and removed the missive. It read:
"IX Pente xv Maciael Andovral Diluculo H.M. Knight of the Dawn Lord of House Diluculo
Dear Sir,
I am commanded to inform you of the sudden and untimely passing of the Most Reverend High Chancellor, Djannus Octavus Insulis, humble servant of the Church and State, on this fifteenth day of the fifth month of this ninth year of his Royal Majesty’s reign. His Lordship immediately requires your presence and council. Upon receipt of this missive, you are to attend forthwith, forsaking all other matters. An escort is provided for your safety.
By the King’s own Command,
F. L. Kovensis R.H. The Secretary of the King Minister of the Treasury"
The writ was elaborately signed in the Secretary’s swooping script. Maciael read the missive over three times, trying to establish its import. The turn of phrase, “immediately requires your presence and council” was ambiguous. Was he being summoned to give advice or to be interrogated? So too the “escort,” which could either be due to a bona fide concern for his safety or merely a desire to preserve his safe, and guaranteed, arrival for questioning.
Maciael looked up and studied the men in front of him. Both excellent tools in their own arena, though each imperfect. Pax was having trouble sitting still, his neck craned up and his eyes hopping from the writ to Maciael’s eyes and back down again. For his part, Duans stared fixedly forward, his face flat and impassive.
Time had run out very quickly, and he needed to start making decisions. Maciael stood, turned away from the table, and took a long breath to calm himself. If Duans assumed that he was having difficulty controlling his grief, fine. He might soon need to perfect that emotional hiccup. “Captain,” he began.
“Milord.”
“The High Chancellor has died. Were you aware of that fact?”
There was a pause. Maciael waited. Finally, Duans answered, “I had heard something, Milord. But nothing confirmed.”
Maciael shook his head. The church did an appalling job of keeping secrets. And nothing flew faster than gossip, particularly morbid gossip. Likely the news was racing down into the lower quarters even as they spoke. Maciael turned back to face the two seraph, then waved at the letter. To the Captain, he said, “Go ahead and read it, then hand it to Pax. I’m not sure how long he will be able to contain himself without seeing it.”
A faint grin escaped the Captain’s control as he lifted the writ and perused it. When he was done, he passed it over and Pax snatched it up eagerly.
Maciael waited for the Master of Secret’s eyes to pass over the contents a half dozen times before continuing, more informally, “So. What do you make of it, Duans?”
Duans stood at ease and answered in the same manner, “Frankly, I don’t like it, Sir. There’s a threat in the letter, and an insult. There is no reason why your own men cannot escort you to the palace.”
Maciael nodded. “What about you, Pax?”
“As far as I know, the King was down in the first quarter last night. ” the short seraph began. “Assuming his visit to the city was…of the usual sort, he probably wouldn’t be in any…condition to be sending letters or doing much business…even with this crisis. Chances are, this is Kovensis’ doing. And, as everyone knows, Kovensis is an ass. You can be sure he is loving every minute of it.”
“Never mind all that,” Maciael interrupted. “I’m sure that the King is well enough to meet with me, and do business. My question is, what am I flying into?”
“Certainly. My apologies. A trap? Undoubtedly. But not one that you can’t turn to your advantage. Milord…subject to your thoughts of course…it strikes me that this letter has been deliberately crafted to instil fear in the guilty and assistance from the loyal. As always, the proper response is essential.”
“Which is…?”
Pax smiled unpleasantly. “Naturally…you must attend to provide council to the King, asn as soon as possible.” The Captain open his mouth to object, but Pax spoke over him, “And…nothing in this missive indicates that you cannot take a compliment of guard with you. After all, if there is anything…untoward regarding the sudden and untimely demise of the High Chancellor, it would be valuable to have men ready to do the King’s bidding.”
Maciael looked back to Duans, who had subsided as Pax clarified his advice. “You both agree that our men should accompany me. How long do you need to gather a small company?”
“Milord, I can have sixty seraph ready within three hours.”
“How many in the escort waiting?”
“Six.”
“Sixty is overkill. Make it twenty. And I want to leave in fifteen minutes. Dismissed.”
The Captain’s eyes bulged at the order and his mouth opened as if to protest before he clamped it shut. Then he wheeled and flew quickly from the room.
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Post by Nedward Underhill on Jan 17, 2009 19:32:28 GMT -6
Maciael summoned Divio and spent the next fifteen minutes changing into something more fitting for presentation within the palace. To declare his authority, he selected a golden breastplate, generously inlaid with lustrous garnets and rubies and emblazoned up the sides with the serpentine forms of the twin sun wyrms of House Diluculo. The armour came with matching skirt, vambraces and greaves, but to show his loyalty to the royal house Maciael substituted elbow length red leather gloves for the vambraces. They were exquisitely crafted, decorated with precious stones and ornate golden stitching, and had been a gift from the Queen. Golden sandals, a broad jewel-encrusted red leather belt, and an ankle-length red velvet cape completed the outfit. Maciael strapped Aduro back in place and looked at himself in the mirror, as Divio fussed about glossing and adjusting his wings. As a final touch, Maciael had Divio hang several of his family’s chains of commendation across his right shoulder. There must be no doubt as to the depth of Diluculo’s pledged support for Crocovia, and the kingdom. Divio proffered the Diliculo circlet, but Maciael refused it. This was a show of support and honour, not a challenge.
Pax fluttered about anxiously, murmuring a litany of advice throughout. Was his entourage large enough? Perhaps a second entourage would be sent after. Of course, weapons must be worn, but never drawn. If Kovensis is sent to greet you, don’t talk with him. Remember, it would not be out of place to keep his Captain with him at all times. Though…of course, if there were an opportunity to speak with the King alone, Maciael should certainly jump at the opportunity. As for the King, only answer the questions that he asks…never speculate as to what he meant to ask you. Volunteer nothing. Try to turn the discussion to his thoughts, draw him out. Remember that you are…shocked by the sudden news. Press him for details. Be outraged…wait, no…not too outraged. Shocked…shocked and saddened by the news. That would be best. Of the six major families…Lord Lucensis is off touring his holdings with his first son, so they weren’t likely to be in attendance…assuming that others are being summoned as well, of course. Edalya Mimatense was still spending time with several suitors, when not at chapel. Given her church connections, she was a likely candidate to be summoned…particularly, if this was the beginning of an inquisition. Curry favour with her immediately. Ignore her suitor, though…if she brings one. She’s not serious about any of them…she enjoys ruling House Mimatense and wont give it up easily. She was a hawk in dove’s clothing…never underestimate her…
Maciael listened half-heartedly to Pax’s frantic whisperings. Most of it he already knew, or suspected. His thoughts, however, were focused on thoughts of the princess Nyssa Cracovia. He ran over the scene of their last meeting in his mind. She had turned and seen him, realizing that she had been caught fleeing the scene of the crime. For a moment, she had opened her mouth as if to speak. What had she been about to say? An admission? A challenge? By now she had had ample time to think about their meeting. What if Pax were wrong, and she accused him of the murder? Well, then, he would have to defend himself. His record was unblemished. He was a devout orthodox follower, and regular congregant of the cathedral. Surely he could turn the tables on her.
Captain Duans returned to advise that all was ready. Maciael shooed Divio off and provided a parting command to Pax, “Start making some hard enquiries at the cathedral. I want real answers when I get back.” The Master of Secrets bowed, acquiescing.
Outside in the landing, the six royal escorts looked rather overwhelmed by the complement of armed guard hovering in the air above them. Maciael recognized the Sergeant leading the squad from his many visits to the palace. He smiled warmly and conferred over-generous honour to the man by touching fingers to lip briefly. “Hila! Good to see that his majesty has chosen to send someone responsible.”
The seraph blushed at the compliments and bowed respectfully. “Good to see you, Sir. I apologize for the inconvenience.”
Maciael waved dismissively. “ Not at all. I understand that you are to see me safely to the palace. You’ll have to forgive Captain Duans. He takes any suggestion of concern for my safety rather seriously.”
“As well he should, Sir.”
Duans organized the company into formation, with the escort leading Maciael in the centre, flanked on either side by ten guards. Duans himself flew just behind Maciael and to the side. Thus arranged, they proceeded slowly across the ward, over the sprawling estates of the other pre-eminent families. More than a few eyes turned to stare upwards at the company at it passed, no doubt fluttering back inside after they passed to whisper about the significance of the escort. Maciael tried not to look down and focused on keeping his demeanour calm.
The palace was situated at the pinnacle of Heaven, literally crowning the great city at its seven wards. The air rose warm but brisk, unobstructed on all sides and competing as it was with the cold currents outside of the Heaven’s influence. Constructed out of gleaming white marble, its walls, domes, and pillars glowed in the early evening light as they approached. The palace was enclosed on all sides with a thick marble wall, its outer surface entirely covered with ornate carvings showing the history of the ages, and the conquests of the seraph over the demonic hordes in ancient times. Now, in the slanting light, the scored eyes of the various seraph and monsters seemed to shift and turn to watch the company’s arrival with interest.
The escort led them over the outer walls and deep within the palace grounds to a landing platform next to the royal residence. Maciael was surprised, having assumed that the meeting would take place at the larger King’s Council chambers. A lone figure stood waiting for them, which Maciael made out as they approached to be the King’s Secretary and Minister, Kovensis.
Kovensis was ancient, thin, and spindly. Standing straight, he would have been quite tall even for a seraph, but age had wrecked his back he stood with the assistance of a cane, bent over almost double. His tired feathers flapped about in the gusts of wind accompanying the company’s arrival. After being presented by the Sergeant, Maciael stepped forward and offered a cursory bow of greeting, meeting the requirements due the Secretary’s station, and no more. Kovensis offered equally small acknowledgement, though whether it was a covert insult or simply an inability to bow further was unclear to Maciael. He was never entirely sure how much of the old seraph’s incapacity was put on.
“There is no need for this display or arms – ehhm – Sir Knight.” The Secretary had a persistent cough, and spittle often lingered on his lips.
“The King’s missive suggested that my protection was needed,” Maciael responded evenly, allowing his displeasure to be known by his tone.
The old seraph coughed again. “Dire events, Sir Knight, require strong actions.” He turned and began hobbling off through the troops and towards the houses. “This way, if you please.”
A wide bridge connected the circular landing from the King’s residence. Maciael easily fell in step with the older seraph’s slow pace, motioning Duans to follow at several paces. They walked in silence for a bit. Then, Maciael asked, “Whom else is the King expecting?”
“Else? No one else.” Kovensis sniffed, which could have been just age, but seemed to again suggest that he considered Maciael’s presentation over done, as if he had prepared for a grand audience, and would be disappointed.
The veiled condescension raised Maciael’s ire. “I pray the King’s visit to the lower wards was agreeable? Lucky he was returned in time to issue the summons,” he quipped.
Kovensis paused in mid-step and wiped the spittle from his lips. “The King has a duty to serve and dwell amongst his people,” he answered. “We – ehhm – all live in service, don’t we?”
“Naturally.”
A pair of royal guards stood by the entrance into the main house, and moved to open the door for them to enter. Kovensis shuffled inside. “You’ll have to leave your men outside, Sir,” one advised, bowing respectfully.
Maciael regarded the seraph coolly. “My men do remain outside. Captain Duans shall attend me, however.”
“Sir,” the man began, “our orders…”
Maciael cut him off. “Your orders do not trump rights by rank, and I shall have an attendant.”
From inside the corridor Kovensis’ old drawl echoed back to them. “Let him have his Captain.”
“Yes, sir.” The guard snapped to attention, and stood aside.
Maciael swept past the man. His blood was boiling. The challenge was bad enough, but standing down at the Secretary’s command rather than is own was too much. Secretary Kovensis evidently had been allowed far too much leeway of late. Maciael would need to endeavour to remind the old man of his proper place.
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Post by Nedward Underhill on Jan 23, 2009 0:09:54 GMT -6
Maciael had never been inside the King’s personal residence. It was of ancient construction, and though far from the largest or grandest building on the grounds, it appeared modestly imposing from the outside. It was built up from the ground like a great pillar of stone stabbing up at the sun. Inside, however, it felt small and labyrinthine. The walls were thick and the ceilings low, sometimes little more than eight feet in height. The residence appeared to have numerous floors, though it was hard to tell how many exactly. They were perpetually climbing, sometime only a few steps up to pass through a small room, and other times up long and twisting stairwells. Maciael was forced to trail along behind the slow moving Secretary as they navigated along. To make matters worse, the place was cluttered full with ancient artifacts, carvings, and curios gathered from around the world. Despite his apparent infirmity, Kovensis threaded his way carefully though the obstacles with practiced ease, while Maciael had to reach out more than once to steady some priceless treasure he had accidentally jostled in passing.
After the incident with the guard, Maciael had made up his mind that he would begin the Secretary’s education by spurning any attempted pleasantries. However, despite the fact that their ascent through the house took some time, Kovensis offered no conversation. The old man tottered along, stopping and delaying their progress at the top of each flight of stairs, but barely acknowledged their presence. His lack of respect and courtesy was galling, and Maciael felt his temper rising. After one particularly long flight of stairs the Secretary actually took a seat to rest and still didn’t deign to say a word or even look at them. Maciael wanted to slap the man for his impudence. Duans cleared his throat as if to introduce a topic, but closed his mouth abruptly at Maciael’s warning glance.
The ascent was so long, in fact, that Maciael began to suspect that the whole exercise had been orchestrated to offend him. Though tall, the pinnacle of the residence could easily have been reached by air in far less than a minute. Instead, they were climbing up the interior like insects. Maciael felt his cheek shake with the force of clenching his teeth.
At last they arrived at the summit. There, at the end of a final wide curving staircase flanked on the outside wall with a series of massive paintings of former Kings, stood an ornate double doorway guarded by a half dozen of the King’s personal guard. They stood ready, and as the trio came into sight they snapped to attention, clashing sword and shield together in warning.
Kovensis completed the last few steps with both hands upon his white cane and came to a stop before them. He stood there for a moment, saying nothing. Maciael took a deep breath and forced his face into a mask of calm. Finally, the Secretary addressed the Captain of the King’s guard, “Ranaan, would you please – ehhm – advise the King – ehhm – that the Knight of the Dawn has arrived, and desires his Majesty’s indulgence?”
Maciael noted the Secretary’s familiarity with the Captain with extreme displeasure. He could stand the man’s insubordination no longer. “I’m sure, Minister, that the Captain has both title and surname!” he snapped.
Suddenly every eye was upon Maciael. Kovensis turned and fairly glared at him for his outburst. But Maciael was livid and did not care if he had lost poise; something needed to be done about the man. His blue eyes burned into the old man’s slate greys, daring him to challenge the command. For a second he saw a spark of answering rage there, accompanied by a twitch in the corner of the old seraph’s wrinkled lips, and then it was gone. Kovensis wiped his lips and acceded, “Please forgive my familiar address, Captain Gracilis.” He continued to look at Maciael as he spoke, but his words were addressed to the landing above them. “Clearly our frequent encounters of each other caused me to – ehhm – forget myself.”
“Clearly,” Maciael answered. He waited until the old seraph turned aside his gaze, and then turned and addressed the Captain himself. “Captain, please do confer my respect and gratitude to the King for the extraordinary honour he has conferred upon me this evening.” As it happened, however, there was no need for a formal introduction. Just as the Captain turned away the doors opened of their own accord and the King himself emerged.
King Azriel Crocovia was regal in appearance, but carried a haunted look. A powerfully charismatic leader in his prime, he was still tall and fine featured, but the barrel had descended from his chest and his cheeks had become hollow. His skin was pale, almost matching the colour of his great silver-grey wings. Deep wrinkles and purpled skin surrounded his deep-set green eyes. His long greying hair was pulled back sharply and braided tightly down his back. He wore a deep green, heavy, fur-lined robe over top of a high-collared silver silk vestment. His neck was bedecked with numerous chains of office, along with a thick length of silver chain that snaked down to his waist and supported a fist-sized marble stone. As always, Maciael’s eyes were drawn to the stone, for though plain and without ornament, he knew it to be the King’s cynosure. Years ago, Maciael had seen Azriel wield it with great devotion and power.
The King stood leaning with either hand on the open doors as the assembled group fell to their knees before him. “Maciael, I thought I heard your voice. It’s good that you’ve arrived. Come in.”
Such was the seraph’s presence that Maciael fairly leapt to obey, all thoughts of keeping Duans with him at all times tossed aside instantly.
But as the doors closed behind him, Maciael ground to halt and gazed around in awe. Here was the answer to why the King chose to live in such ancient, cramped quarters. The top of the tower that served as the Royal residence was one great round room. It was furnished with a large desk on one side and an intimate grouping of couches and chairs on the other. The floor was lushly carpeted, as befit a King. But what was extraordinary about the room were the walls. From the outside it had appeared like a normal peaked dome. Here, on the inside, the walls were somehow clear to the outside, like glass, and provided a panoramic view of the palace grounds and beyond. That would have been enough to astonish any newcomer, but the room contained something else even more extraordinary. Floating in the centre of the room at eye level was an enormous Arachite stone, at least an arms-length across, perfectly rounded and polished to a blood-red lustre, spinning slowly in the air. Despite the dramatic vistas outside, Maciael’s attention was forcefully drawn to the spinning orb. There was something mesmerizing about it. As it turned, images seemed to form and fade upon its surface like one might see in shifting clouds.
The King noticed Maciael’s stare. “The Astrum Verum. Beautiful, is she not?”
“Yes,” Maciael replied, forgetting himself. Recovering, he corrected himself, “Indeed, your Grace.”
The King flicked his fingers as if to say that he didn’t require the formality, and took Maciael by the shoulder and guided him up to the stone. As they approached, Maciael felt a comforting heat spinning off of the stone on his face. The orb continued to turn slowly, its images none the clearer. He could not take his eyes off of it.
The King stood beside him. After a minute, he asked quietly, “What do you see?”
Maciael shook his head. “Majesty, I see vague images playing on the surface of the stone, but for some reason I cannot make them out. It is as if they were obscured by smoke…or immersed under water.”
“An interesting way of describing it. Yes. It is a beautiful mystery. Another indecipherable remnant of the ancient magics. I have lost many hours staring into its depths, only to become no wiser.”
Maciael pulled his eyes away from the hypnotic orb and turned to his King. “Has the church no guidance to give regarding its hidden meaning?”
“Ah yes, the church,” the King answered, a disappointed tone creeping into his voice. “No they have no answer for its mysteries; only platitudes and futile prayers. They have not been of much assistance of late, have they.” From his inflection, it was clear it was a statement, not a question. Turning, the King led Maciael across the room to stand next to the room’s clear glass walls. Beneath their feet, the walls of the tower fell down fifty yards to the palace grounds. Maciael waited for the King to continue, but he said nothing, merely staring off into the distance. They passed several minutes in silence; staring out at the grounds and sky laid out before them.
Though hesitant to speak out of turn, Maciael began to think that he had missed some cue, and that something was required of him. “I greatly regret the passing of the High Chancellor, your Grace,” he ventured. “A terrible blow.”
Maciael’s words appeared to bring the King’s attention back to their conference. He took a deep breath, and though he continued to stare ahead, his attention was very much on Maciael. “Yes. Tell me, Maciael, what do you know of the Chancellor’s death?”
Maciael attempted to evade the question. “Word has not yet spread widely, your Grace. You word was the first notice that we received of the event.”
The King cast a measuring gaze on Maciael. “Indeed.” Maciael concentrated on keeping his face calm and still, betraying no hint of his thoughts. After a long moment, the King’s eyes passed off of him and look back outside. He voice slowed almost to a whisper. “Word has not spread widely…as you say. Tell me, Maciael, you were on quite…close….terms with the Chancellor. It is possible that his death might have affected you…more personally than most. What word…would you provide to the masses now?”
There was not a shred of doubt in Maciael’s mind that his answer to the King’s innocent-sounding question would determine his future. There was no way to judge what the King wanted to hear however, or even how much he knew of the truth. “Your Majesty, “ he began, even as his mind raced through the possibilities. His instincts told him that it was too risky to lead with the truth now. “The High Chancellor was a great leader of the church, and a friend to the King. He served well and diligently, and died in office, as he would have wanted. He shall be honoured in death, and no bad spoken of him.”
The King gazed out over the vista before them, his hand idly playing with the great silver chain that held up his marble cynosure. There was a long pause. “He died as he lived,” he finally replied, trying out the words on his lips.
“Yes.”
For a moment longer, the King stood still, playing with the chain around his neck. Then he seemed to come to a decision. He smiled and put his hand on Maciael’s shoulder. “Did you know that I fought my first training match against your father?”
Maciael tried not to breath a huge sigh of relief. “It was always a great source of pride for my father.” He answered. “You beat him soundly.”
“He was a good seraph and a great soldier. Loyal and true to me.”
“Thank you, your Majesty.” Something about the King’s words did not sit comfortably with Maciael. “You can always count on Diluculo for loyalty and service,” he added.
The King pursed his lips as he considered Maciael’s words. “I’m glad to hear it.” He gently placed his arm across Maciael’s shoulder. “You know that several were unhappy with your advancement to First Knight?”
“Yes Milord. And I should add…”
“No need for to add anything. You had a good advocate in Djannus. And House Diluculo deserved the recognition. Not to mention your campaign successes in your own right. But for your victory at Astrum Oxonii, our victory here might not been assured. But, in the end, I don’t think those are the reasons why I chose you.”
“Majesty, I don’t understand.”
The King chuckled, but though a warm and comforting tone, there was a sad ring to it. “You are young. Young enough to swear allegiance to your oath of office…and to foreswear the comforts, and gifts, that a woman can offer.”
Shocked by the King’s words, Maciael pulled away. “My Liege! The comfort and succour of Yaelwe’s embrace is all that any knight should require. Matters of the flesh are mere distractions from our more noble purposes…”
“…while celibacy is a source of detachment from the material world, which hones one’s body and spirit towards its proper relationship with the Almighty. In this true relation flows the power to the devout.” the King finished, languidly. “I well know the teachings of the Order. I was not too different from you, once. Brash. Headstrong. Ambitious. But as you get older, other things come to matter more than success and power in your own lifetime. One’s mind turns instead to one’s legacy.”
Maciael was not at all comfortable with the direction of their conversation, and tried to bring it back to safer ground. “Majesty, you have accomplished great things during your reign. For your faith, and your strenghtening of the church in the lives of the people. For justice and order throughout the land. For these things you will be remembered in ages to come!”
The King laughed mirthlessly. “I wish that what you claimed were true. That too might have been a legacy worth living for. But though I may not be able to divine the hidden meanings within the Astrum Verum, I can see what is plainly before my face. There is such too much suffering in the lives of the fallen. The humans are dying, Maciael. Their numbers dwindle in the endless cold and dark below us. For this I will be judged. If I am remembered at all, it will be for this dark age when Yaelwe turned his eyes away from Aerland.”
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Post by Nedward Underhill on Jan 26, 2009 0:22:56 GMT -6
What dire spirit had come over the King? Maciael touched his fingers to his lips reflexively, as if to ward off Yaelwe’s judgment for the utterance of such heresy. “Your Grace, you must not say such things!” he whispered. “It is only a few colder years. Such is the natural course. The scriptures are plain on this. Humanity turned away from the the Truth and the Light. They lost their way in dark places. For this sin, they were cast down from Heaven and cursed to crawl over the earth, to be born into sufferage and pain. They survive now by faith, and love, for the Sky Father. The unfaithful may perish, yes, but those of true faith have always been sheltered and protected.”
“Sobeit,” the King answered, but his voice was flat and indifferent. Clasping his hands behind his back, he turned away from Maciael and led the way across the room to his desk. From a drawer within itthe King he drew forth an rectangular etched decanter half full of a dark liquor, and two glasses. Pouring two glasses, he placed one before Maciael, then tipped his own back sharply. Refilling his glass, he spoke again, quietly. “It is no secret that the Queen and I have…no heir for the throne.”
This was the subject Maciael had hoped to avoid. It was indeed no secret. They had but one child, and that was the princess Nyssa. For some reason, after her birth, the Queen had produced no more children, either boy or girl. Of course, the princess could not ascend to the throne. Not even she would be so outrageous as to consider it. A son was needed for the King to leave a legacy. And as the years passed, the whispers had grown. As he received his reports from Pax, it often seemed to Maciael that there were few whispered topics of gossip more popular than speculation as to which of the Royal couple was to blame, and what the lack of a Cracovia heir would mean for the Kingdom.
“Yaelwe is generous in all things, and will provide an heir for the Kingdom in time…” Maciael began awkwardly, falling back on his principles of faith to help him.
The King turned upon him with a scowl and cut him off. “A man needs a son!” he shouted. “I don’t mean that the Kingdom needs a prince. I…!” He pounded his fist against his chest. “I need need a son!”
Maciael stuttered to silence before the King’s rage.
The King looked away from Maciael and down at table before him, his anger dissolving as quickly as it had come. “You haven’t taken your glass.”
Maciael reached for the liquor, not wanting to give offense. It was one thing to drink wine alone or in the company of another Lord, another thing to drink heavy liquor before the King who had knighted him. “Milord…my vows…”
“So now we come to it.” The King’s jaw came up, and his eyes fixed upon Maciael. In the semi-darkness of the day’s twilight the King’s irises were almost entirely black, with only a sliver of green ringing around them. “Where is your loyalty? To your vows to the church…or to me? You decide.”
In answer, Maciael lifted his glass and drained it. It was pure urkari, sharp and heady, produced from one of the finest cuienne distilleries in Aboria, and Maciael recognized it immediately. Given its unusually strong flavour and extreme potency, urkari was normally “cut” with liberal amounts of ice, or even sugared water. Evidently, however, the King preferred to drink it straight.
The King lifted his second and they toasted each other, the thin clink of glasses echoing off the vaulted glass ceiling. “When your father died, I felt a kinship with you, Maciael. You were without a father. I, without a son. Did you not feel it as well? We were like matching pieces in the same broken set.”
Though Maciael had felt nothing of the kind, he knew better than to admit it. He wondered how much the King had had to drink.
“It was not your achievements,” the King continued, “or the words of the Chancellor, or your name, which brought you advancement. No, it was this connection between us. You were brash, ambitious, and confident. But would not my own son have had such characteristics? Your power of faith was like your sword: strong and sharp. For it, the church and kingdom looked up to you with adoration. Should it not have been just so, with my heir?”
Maciael felt a thrill of elation, laced with a ribbon of fear, as the King’s words sank in. He hardly dared to believe what he was hearing. Falling to his knees, he bowed his head. “Majesty, you do me too much honour.”
Azriel proceeded around the table to come and lay a hand upon him. “What do you think of my Nyssa, Maciael?”
What did he think of her? He hardly knew. He had never thought much of her. Beautiful, of that there was no doubt. But she was also proud and arrogant, to the point of offence. She clearly did not know a woman’s place. When Maciael had thought about her before, which was rarely, his most common thought was merely that she needed a firm hand to curb her outrageous ways. After that morning, however, his feelings about her were confused even further. He didn’t dare tell the King of how he suspected Nyssa of practicing dark rites. But neither could he be bound to such a creature. Could he?
Maciael answered the question, but carefully attempted avoid offence and dodge its import. “My Liege, I love your daughter as I love you. You have my devotion and my sword. But you have made me a Knight, and I am now foresworn from a worldly union. Should I forsake my vow of celibacy my sword might fall dead in my hands, and then I would be of no use to you.”
Maciael had kept his head bowed as he spoke. Now, the King’s voice became harsh and cold as it descended upon him. “I did not make you a Knight. Djannus got ahold of you, and fed you that diet of half-truths and vague promises! I merely raised you up so that you might stand beside me. Now, I offer you more…” The King’s hand clawed into the cloth around Maciael’s neck, “The jewel of my life, and you would spurn it? You would cast the church’s platitudes in my face as if I offer you the world?”
Maciael flinched, and bowed his head further. “Your Grace, I meant no offence...”
Maciael’s words trailed off as the King unfurling his great wings and yanked Maciael roughly to his feet. “No offense?!” the King snapped. The King’s strength was amazing. Despite Maciael’s armour, the King’s lifted him with one hand, as if he weighed nothing. He did not raise his voice. He held Maciael close and spoke in a low voice that was almost a whisper. All the same, his words whipped into Maciael as if they had been shouted. “You disappoint me, Maciael. I thought we understood each other. Surely you are aware that there is more to this life than your vows to the priests?”
Maciael looked into the eyes of the King. By a trick of the light he saw only blackness, as if the King’s irises had swollen and filled his eyes entirely. For the first time since he entered the King’s chamber Maciael felt an icy fear in his chest. “Your Majesty, please forgive me!” he blurted out, his mind racing. “I do understand. I do. And I am deeply honoured. I was merely surprised…and confused…by this sudden turn of events. The princess is exceedingly beautiful. Would I be pleasing to her?”
The King released his hand from Maciael’s neck and smiled calmly. As quickly as it had come, the darkness seemed to fade from his eyes. “My boy, she was the one who suggested it.”
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Post by Nedward Underhill on Jan 31, 2009 21:37:07 GMT -6
Chapter 5
“A moment, Divio,” Maciael requested, as the page fluttered off to remove his discarded armour from the Diluculo master bedroom.
“Lord?”
Honestly, Maciael did not know why he had called the boy back. Since being escorted from the King's chamber, his mind had been spinning with the sudden turn of events. Nothing made any sense.
Divio stared at him, waiting for instructions. “If you were given a choice between loyalty and belief, what would you choose?” Maciael managed, finally.
The boy cocked his head, perplexed. “I don't know how that would happen, Milord. I am loyal to the things that I believe in.”
“But say you had to choose between me and your family?” Maciael pressed.
“My family is passed into the arms of the Almighty. You know that.”
Maciael sighed and waved the boy off. The conversation was going nowhere. Besides, he was not sure that it even was the right question.
“Err...But even if my family were alive, I would certainly chose you, Lord.” The boy added worriedly, sensing like he had not answered the question to Maciael's satisfaction, and misconstruing his dismissal.
Maciael did not have the patience to explain. “Thank you, Divio. That is all.”
“Yes, Lord. Should I get your night attire ready and have the bathing water heated for you?"
“Thank you. Something warm. I feel a chill tonight.”
Divio slipped quietly out the door, leaving him alone with his thoughts. No, Maciael decided, he had not framed the question properly. The King had demanded his loyalty, but that was his right. Though Maciael was sincere about his devotion to the church, his loyalty was first always to the King as Yaelwe's representative. That was not to say that it would be easy for him to relinquish his vows to the Order of the Dawn. Becoming a knight had been his life’s work. But if the King demanded that he relinquish his vows, sobeit.
All the same, Maciael was deeply conflicted. Was it what he had seen in cathedral that troubled him? Maciael had not told the King that he had come upon Nyssa at the murder. But the implications were horrific. Even if he were to forswear his Knight’s vows, surely he could not allow himself to be yoked to a hoar witch? Maciael laughed derisively, muttering under his breath, “Perhaps the better question is how can I stop it?” Not only had Maciael been unable to decline the offer, the King had been so eager to move forward with the union that he had spoken of performing the wedding ceremony between of the two of them “with all haste.” The deed could well be sealed and done within a week. Maciael shuddered at the thought.
Maciael had ordered that a roaring fire be lit within his bedroom. Now he moved over to warm himself beside it, but it didn't help. A chill had seeped into his bones, and no matter how close he stood, it lingered.
He was brooding too much. What he needed was a plan. In the morning he would meet with Pax, and maybe Captain Duans, and come up with something. Even as he thought it, he doubted if either would be much help. Pax was too conniving to plan a direct assault, and sad shadows and danger in everything. Duans was too blunt and simplistic for court intrigue. Despite their strengths, neither the Master of Secrets nor the Captain of the Guard was a General. It was a role that Maciael would need to fill, and one for which he felt particularly inadequate.
With a start, Maciael realized that what he needed was Djannus' advice. The old Chancellor had always been cool and unflappable, and his mind always three of four steps ahead of whatever crisis was boiling up. On more than a few occasions Maciael had attended the cathedral convinced that their political campaigns were inexorably leading to disaster, only to be shown how he had nothing to worry about. The old bird had been like a General in the battleground of the court and high society. Those within his influence were his troops, and he would subtly shift and move them to accomplish his strategic objectives. Usually his pawns did not even know that they were being used. Now that was a skill that Maciael wished he had!
Divio’s quiet knock interrupted his brooding thoughts and announced that his bath was ready. On sudden impulse, Maciael decided that he wouldn’t take the bath just yet. “I’ve changed my mind. Get my old black habit, and my grey fur-lined cloak. You know the one. From back when I was a novice.”
The page blinked in confusion. “Lord?”
“I wont be long; maybe an hour or so. I just need some air.”
Divio didn’t argue, of course. Draping Maciael’s silk robe over the loveseat next to the master bed folding and setting down the night attire on its seat, he simply turned and flitted silently out of the room to find the old clothing Maciael had demanded. As the door closed silently, Maciael realized that they were probably packed away deep in storage. He hadn’t worn the simple garb in years, not since he had completed his apprenticeship to the Order down at the old Daurican Abbey. Well, if it took awhile, sobeit, he thought. He needed to be reconnected to a time when life’s challenges seemed simple and straightforward. Besides, the dark, unassuming, clothing would be ideal for passing unnoticed, which suited him just fine tonight.
But Maciael was wrong about the delay. Within a few minutes Divio was back, bearing the heavy-woven novice’s garb folded carefully in his arms. The cloth smelled like mothballs, and the shoulders of the habit were a bit tighter than he would have liked, but otherwise the garments were serviceable enough. Maciael tied the rope belt in place and allowed the tasselled end to hang down in front of him, then stepped in front of a full-length mirror and regarded himself. The change was striking. With the hood up and his hands prayerfully folded, he doubted that anyone would recognize him for the Lord of Diluculo. Even up in the higher quarters, he could just be taken for a Notice sent from the Abbey to deliver news to one of the high families.
With a nod to his page, Maciael swept out onto the balcony. The sky stretched dark and cloudless above him, dominated by the pale face of the greater moon. Naewin shone large and bright over Heaven, illuminating those surfaces facing up to her but leaving dark shadows to fill the hidden places in Heaven. Urincia was also present, though already slipping away under the horizon. By tomorrow night it would be gone for another fortnight.
A patrol of house guards flew silently by up above the Manse. No doubt Duans had doubled or even tripled the watch tonight. Partly that was Maciael’s fault. He had been so stunned by the turn of events within the Royal residence that he hadn’t spoken more than two words to the Captain on their return. More than once he had felt the Captain’s worried gaze upon him, but Maciael had not volunteered anything of what had happened. When the Captain had moved to come in for a debriefing, Maciael had dismissed him, commanding that he wished no visitors. Duans would have taken Maciael’s brooding silence and distress as an indication of potential danger.
Once the patrol was safely out of sight, Maciael launched himself over the balustrade. Furling his wings, he allowed himself to fall down the cliff wall for five beats or so in order to build up speed. Then he spread his wings and glided out low over the buildings and down into the lower city.
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Post by Nedward Underhill on Feb 5, 2009 23:06:49 GMT -6
Up in the upper wards, the great houses were spaced far apart, each comfortably surrounded by manicured grounds and immaculate estates. But as Maciael flew down the side of the mountain city the buildings began increasingly to crowd in upon each other. Heaven was a condensed city, its streets and buildings necessarily contained within the surface of the great floating mountain that held them all. There could be no sprawl, no outliers. The land ended, and the fall off of the lower edges was precipitous. In addition, portions of the city surface were lost to cliff walls and sheer surfaces preventing easy construction. Ancient cobbled streets snaked up the sides of the city, winding tortuous paths through the disorder of buildings and up the sides of the cliff faces. They were remnants of a long lost time before the rise of the seraph. But though rarely used for walking by the aerial inhabitants of the city, they served as thoroughfares still. Trespass over another’s property was rightly considered an intrusion of privacy and was frowned upon. The old roads providing a controlled course for traffic and ensuring some measure of privacy to property owners.
Though the city was divided into seven wards, it was not always clear as to where one ward ended and the next began. There were a few clear boundaries, the most obvious being the sheer cliff walls ringing the mountaintop and separating the final seventh ward from the rest of the city. But mostly, such matters were established over time, by general acceptance, and often by hard fought claim. There was no question that a family’s status was inexorably linked to where their home perched in the city. Movement up a ward also brought with it social obligations, as well as increased tithing to the church and service to the King. Generally, such costs were well worth the increase in family recognition.
Maciael raced down the side of the mountain, emboldened by his simple disguise and deliberately flaunting convention, skimming rooftops and momentarily losing himself in simple pleasure of flight. He did not have any definite idea of where he was headed. He just needed to work his muscles, clear his mind, and maybe push back the lingering chill that was nagging him. In the third ward, one of the minor nobles appeared to be hosting a party, for the house was lit up like a beacon. With a mischievous grin, Maciael deliberately altered course and raced over the party-goers, beating his wings furiously and momentarily exposing his face as the hood of his cloak was suddenly whipped from his head by a cross wind. He snatched it back into place, his heart racing. A moment later, their surprised voices had fallen behind him and he found himself laughing at himself. Surely they would not have recognized the Lord of Diluculo crashing their party, and if they had, what did it matter? They would not dare speak up against Knight of the Dawn.
A blustering wind had come up, blowing in hard from the north and challenging the rising warmth that normally blanketed the city. Maciael welcomed the simple challenge. Turning his flight, he soared away from the city and sought out the wind’s wild currents. For a few minutes he just danced with the wind, allowing himself to be tossed like a leaf and then fighting back hard to regain control. He hadn’t brought Aduro with him, but he was a strong and capable flier and had no need for prayer here. He was elated by the contest. He allowed himself to be thrown farther and further away from the sheltering warmth of the city until the bitter north wind cut through his garments like a knife and his sweat froze upon his face. There was real danger in courting such freezing temperatures. His wings could ice up or his muscles could cramp, sending him plummeting down to certain death on the hard and frozen ground thousands of yards below. Maciael didn’t care. The weight of Heaven’s intrigues were for a moment forgotten, blown away by the natural power of the Sky Father’s winds.
Only when his teeth began to chatter uncontrollably did he turn his flight back to the city. He had been tossed quite a distance during his exertions. Now, the entirety of the city was laid out before him. In the cloudless night, the lights of the houses were clearly visible, flickering like a hundred thousand candles shining behind glass on a great tiered cake in the sky. Most of the light, however, shone from the lower city, which seemed to never sleep. The upper wards were mostly dark and quiet now.
Maciael turned his flight and headed toward the lights of the first ward. He wasn’t ready to sleep yet. Refreshed by the biting wind and exercise, he felt better than he had all day. More like himself, in fact. It wasn’t like him to be so brooding. He prided himself on his bravery and bold action. The tumultuous events of the day might have knocked the wind out him, but now that his head was cleared he would recover his strength. Perhaps a little time in the lower city was just what he needed.
A few minutes hard effort brought him over the great chaotic warren that was the lower city. The common expression was that the lower city never slept, and as Maciael landed on the roof of a common house and scanned over the teeming throng, the expression seemed appropriate. Down here, there was not really anything as formal as thoroughfares or streets. Once, there might have been, but over the passage of time the denizens had simply built wherever space was available, until the whole lower ward was covered with a mad confusion of buildings all pressed cheek to jowl. Many of the buildings were of poor and cheap construction, thrown together without any sense of aesthetic or planning. More often than not they did not stand straight. Some stood half finished. If any passages existed between the buildings at all, they were narrow corridors of a few yards at most.
People gathered everywhere: on rooftops, within buildings, and in the few rough open spaces left between buildings. Performers and street hawkers fluttered about, and folks would congregate, talking loudly and taking their ease. The crowds were thick, and seraph brushed shoulders with cherub without qualm.
Prayers of luminescence were easy to learn, and were often offered by the church as a form of outreach, so most of the revellers were aglow, trailing wisps of light as they wandered about. As a result, the squares such as the one below Maciael were lit up bright as day. No doubt this contributed to the sleepless atmosphere.
One floor below him, a popular musical group had set up in one of the lower windows overlooking the square and was blaring out wild throbbing music. The crowd danced and gyrated ecstatically, moved by the pounding rhythm. It was easy to see how folks might lose days down here, losing complete track of time in the endless revelry.
It had been a long time since Maciael had spent time in the lower ward. Not only was the revelry somewhat jarring to his orthodox sensibilities, it wasn’t always safe down in the lower wards. Duans would have a fit if he found out Maciael had gone down without escort. Maciael smiled, imagining his expression. Heat rose up from the square, filled with the smell of sweat and the ever-present hint of garbage that pervaded the lower wards. Maciael breathed in deeply, taking in the warmth of the crowd and feeling the cold within him slip away. He stood for a moment longer, rubbing warmth back into his arms. Then, with a wild grin, he hopped over the building’s edge and swooped down into the dancing throng.
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Post by Nedward Underhill on Feb 8, 2009 0:51:57 GMT -6
Maciael pressed himself into the host of bodies filling the square. The dance was a simple one that even he remembered. It alternated between circling groups and spinning pairs. The groupings shifted and changed as people came and went, and soon Maciael was dancing in step, losing himself in the easy rhythm of the dance. He got a few raised eyebrows and twinkling grins on account of his orthodox notice’s robes, but he didn’t pay it any mind. It was all in fun anyway. Nothing was serious. Everything was light and laugher. The crowd surged and moved. Dancers brushed or bumped into Maciael from all sides. Move than once he got someone’s feathers in his face as some one spun near to him. Up above, the music trumpeted out of the open window and echoed over the street. A pair of beautiful seraphim stood on the sill belting out a simple harmony and encouraging the crowd to join along. The ground shook from the rhythmic beating of the drums and the pounding of feet in time.
Maciael lost track of time. The troupe seemed to play endlessly, blending one familiar song into the next without ever stopping. The dances changed with the music. When Maciael didn’t know the steps, he would have to play close attention for a few moments, but they were all simple songs and dances, and before long he would be confident in his steps again. His hood thrown back and head held high, he added his voice to the songs or simply laughed aloud as he spun his partners along.
Still the music blared on. Under his heavy black robes, sweat poured from Maciael body. His curled hair clung to his face and he smeared the sweat of his face with his open palm. The fur-lined cloak weighed heavily on his back, weighing his down, and began to wish he had worn something lighter. The warmth and heat from the muddy earth, added to the heat of the bodies around him, made the square feel like a furnace. His feet stung every time his put them down. Finally, after he was long past spent, he pulled away and flapped over to a wall for a break. There was an open spot near to a narrow corridor between two of the buildings, so he landed there and leaned heavily against the wall, catching his breath.
A smiling cherub fluttered over to him carrying a tray of glowing pink drinks. Like as cherub she was petite and diminutive, with the ageless skin and appearance unique to the race, but something about her movements suggested she was far from young. She leaned in close and shouted in his ear, “Nectar!”
Maciael nodded gratefully, and fished out his change purse. She named a sum five times what the simple drink was worth, but he paid it without caring and immediately bought another. Gold and silver were no issue. Even in his small purse he had more than enough to drown himself in drink if he so pleased.
Evidently seeing the glint of gold in his purse, she smiled brilliantly at him and pointed to the rooftop on the far side of the street where a brightly-coloured merchant’s screen was visible. “Food too!” she chirped. “You look hungry. Very good! Very tasty!”
He shook his head and waved her off, but not before several more hawkers had descended upon them. Fruit, candied sugars, more drinks, and even souvenirs of the performing troupe were stuck in his face. Maciael purchased a golden apple that was somewhat past its prime, and then crossed his arms to indicate by sign that he was no longer in need of anything. It took some persistence, but finally, one by one, they all moved off to pursue new customers.
With a great flourishing finale, the music finally came to a stop. One of the singers announced that they would be back in a few minutes and they both disappeared from view. The crowd slowed to a stop, then broke and began to mill around. Some flew up to pester the band. Most moved off to visit the merchants or allowed the hawkers to demonstrate their wares. A juggler, snatching at the opportunity, laid down a hat in the middle of the square and started tossing balls into the air.
Maciael stood comfortably leaning against the corner of the building, flipping his uneaten apple into the air and watching the milling crowd. It was strange how foreign the world of the upper city was from that of the lower. Today had been a dark day of murder in the cathedral. Seraphim would be engaged in prayer vigils and would speak in hushed voices. But down here, it was a celebration. It was like they were not even the same city.
Maciael’s thoughts distracted, he did not see the seraph youth until the golden apple was snatched from him. Judging from his size the boy had not even reached adolescence, maybe twenty years of age at most. He grabbed the golden fruit with nimble fingers as he skimmed past, and then twisted sharply and disappeared into the darkness of the corridor next to Maciael.
“Thank you, Father,” he taunted.
“Hey!” Without a second thought, Maciael gave chase. It wasn’t the value of the apple, of course; it was the principle of the thing. Thievery was a crime, and punishable severely by the city laws. Besides, if the thief thought he could out-fly Maciael, he was in for a rude awakening.
As he raced down the dark pathway, Maciael quickly realized that he could not use his wings effectively. After a few feet, there was barely room between the buildings to spread his arms out on either side of him. But though the boy clearly had the advantage, he was not faring much better. He glanced back frantically as he ran, propelling himself forward with quick beats of his wings. But his legs were short, and even with the added press of his wings, Maciael gained.
“Thief! Come back here!” Maciael shouted uselessly. He lowered his head sprinted hard after the boy.
Even as Maciael watched, he ducked around the far corner of the building. By the time Maciael came around, the boy was about to disappear around another corner in the tight warren of buildings. The sounds of the street party faded into the distance as Maciael twisted and turned through the dark alleyways. The smell was terrible. He leapt over scattered refuse and scrambling over piles of old debris. The boy knew the pathways well, and skipped along ahead, leading Maciael further into the maze of buildings. But the challenge only made Maciael more determined to catch the punk and teach him a lesson. A few times, he was tempted to fly up and over the buildings, but there never was a good opportunity to take flight. Besides, just with the power of his legs he had narrowed the distance between them to a few yards. Finally, the boy made a mistake. Maciael raced around a turn only to find the thief cornered within a narrow gap between three ramshackle buildings. Dead end.
Maciael pushed in to the space, closing on the boy. But something was wrong. The boy tossed the golden apple back and forth between his hands with practiced hands. He appeared neither afraid nor tensed to try to bolt. It wasn’t until Maciael heard the sound of steel behind him that he realized that it had all been a trap. And he had walked right into it.
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