by Andy Havens
My father said it reminded him of an eye, Senbi thought. Him and his goofy portents.
Senbi stepped over the bench and gestured for them to climb over and sit. While they arranged themselves to one side, he touched the altar, spoke a word and its surface began to glow. The same orange light as above, but brighter. It seemed to throw off a bit of heat, too, dispelling the chill and dampness of the surrounding water.
Turning to the three, he said simply, “I am your Lord,”
They replied with the ritual response, “We serve the Blood.”
Standing before them with the orange glow of the altar setting his silhouette in sharp contrast, Senbi said, “I have asked you here to help me bear a great and terrible burden.”
The three looked back and forth at each other, worried yet also moved by pride and strength. We are worthy of this burden, their stances seemed to say.
Senbi continued, “Several centuries ago, I first heard of a plot among the other Domains. A plot to diminish the strength and reach of Blood.”
That startled and confused them. A plot like that would be in direct violation of the Law. Which hadn’t happened since just after the Great Reckoner War. More than seven millennia in the past.
He made a calming gesture with his hands. “I know, I know. It seems… unthinkable. At first I assumed it was merely gossip or hateful lies spread to sow enmity among various factions, both in our House and at large.”
They nodded at this. Lies and subterfuge were practical, political tools.
“But I was… intrigued. Not alarmed, of course. Blood has never been stronger, really. We are more fecund than the other Houses. More willing to do the hard, painful things necessary for the success of our families, tribes and clans.”
They nodded again. Of course Blood is the strongest House! Are we not oldest among the Created? Are not our Ways written deep in the desires and fears of all Domains?
“I kept watch. As is my duty. Over time, across the long decades of my reign… I saw signs. I know you have seen them, too. But today I ask you to see them with new eyes. With my eyes. Let me sit with you, talk with you, and we will all understand these things better.”
For almost an hour they talked. He sat among them and didn’t lecture, didn’t make a speech. He didn’t command or rail against a particular enemy. He simply shared a series of facts that, he said, had led him to the conclusion that there was, in fact, a concerted effort being made by the other Houses to diminish the strength of Blood.
They listened. There were no echoes in this place. The water and false, stone sky seemed to swallow his words and so they listened harder as if to draw them deeper into their minds. Sometimes they nodded, sometimes they frowned. They asked a few polite questions. Requested clarifications or details. He answered simply, directly.
When he was done, they all agreed that something strange was going on. That the world had changed in ways that were… alarming… for the prospects of tribe, family and clan.
For a few minutes, they were all silent. This was a holy place. A place of great power and moment. To speak quickly or rashly would be unwise.
But, finally, the Weyyrd of Bear spoke, her voice soft yet strong. “How are we to help you bear this burden, Lord? Tell us and we shall obey.”
Iron and Bone murmured their agreement.
“What I ask,” Senbi said in response, “is not easy. I do not trust that all the Fathers and Mothers, all the Chiefs… even all the Talismae… are convinced of this danger.
“To be honest with you,” and here his voice dropped to a low, pained whisper, “Some of the Blood may even be involved in the plot.”
At this, all three of the Waymasters gasped. Blood cannot betray Blood!
He made another calming gesture. “I know, my children. I know. It is hard to believe. I’m not sure that our brothers and sisters even know that they assist our enemies. They may be good, true kin. But the trickery of other Houses is well known.”
True, true.
“The appeal of foreign Ways… well, that is something we all have seen.”
They frowned at that and mumbled angry curses at those Bloods who had any traffic in the Ways of Increase, Sight or Release. Yes, yes… well known. Some of the people use those Narrow Roads and spyglasses and locking spells. Shameful. Shameful.
Hypocrites, Senbi thought. I have seen all of you indulge a game of Chaos or a bauble of Increase.
Senbi moved off the bench and squatted down before them, head lower than theirs, hands leaning on the knees of two of them for balance and to seem more intimate.
“The Ways of Blood are true,” he said simply. They nodded. “And strong.” They nodded again.
“As Weyyrd—creators and casters of our Ways—I trust you as I trust no others. All I ask, in return, is your trust in me. That I might prepare a Way of Blood that will challenge our enemies’ blasphemy and help heal our own kin’s error.”
The three nodded in unison, each mouthing oaths of fealty and support.
What bumpkins, thought Senbi, thanking them and raising them up into an embrace. Hundreds of years of service to the Ways and never promoted to Clan Chief or even tribal elder. Easy to impress, easy to frighten, easy to convert.
The parties and favors and vague warnings were a no-brainer. Taking the Weyyrd down to see the Wraidd, though, had been Cole’s idea… and a great one. It impressed on the Waymasters that he, alone, was keeper of great secrets and ancient powers.
He had them all put their hands on the glowing altar and swear loyalty to him, directly, in this one matter. Bypassing the bonds of family, tribe, clan and kin that normally took precedence over the more generalized, cultural expressions of loyalty to the Bloodlord. He spoke the words and made the signs and the fire jumped from the altar to his hands and into their flesh.
The Mark of his Way was left on the undersides of their tongues. Subtle, small, barely discernable even if you looked right at it. But they would feel its touch every day. They would sense its power there and be unable to speak of their secret, their suspicions, their union. Except to him. And, when the time came, they would answer his call and complete his design.
In many things, Senbi thought, I am a symbol. A figurehead. Now, in this, I am their only Master.
He embraced them again and led them back across the lake, up the steps, through the dungeon and guard rooms and into the guest suites they’d enjoyed so much the night before.
Then he collapsed in front of his widescreen TV with a carafe of raspberry iced tea and an egg salad sandwich.
* * * * *
A deep, cloudy night with no moon, no lamps and no torches. Yet enough light leaked in from the tall buildings nearby to cast the topiary garden in shades of gray rather than pitch black.
Perched on the corner of the east wall where he could observe the entire garden, Mirkir waited. He was good at waiting. Being made of stone, his kind had dozens of words for different kinds of waiting and knew flavors of patience that most sentient creatures wouldn’t understand.
Currently he was waiting for someone to unlock the garden. In the absence of a master or mistress, that’s what he did.
He’d been a bit confused by all the recent excitement in his garden and elsewhere nearby. He’d understood his role for a very long time and was very good at very specific things. Outside those talents, though, his was not a… flexible… character. It was not meant to be.
Guard this. Keep others from entering. Kill anyone who insists. If you can’t, raise warning and find your master.
Easy, good, happy tricks.
Rain had been his master for a long time. In a variety of gardens. In many cases, there had been other masters, too. Rain would say, “Obey this one, Mirkir.” And he would.
Sometimes the thing you had to guard wasn’t a place but a person or an object that moved around. Not as easy. Not so simple to guard something when it (annoyingly) left the garden. Still though… good, happy tricks.
After Kaolyn and Rain crumbl
ed, Mirkir hadn’t anything to do. Well, he’d chased that damned squirrel for half an hour. He’d seen Kaolyn turn to ash – they sometimes do that, after all, he’d thought at the time. But then he’d felt Rain’s command on him snap like a thin, brittle leash.
Which made the next decision easy. Back to the garden.
The garden was still missing one gargoyle, officially. Not that there was a rule or anything. But four corners usually meant four guards. Mirkir and Kaolyn had managed to fix one of his brothers who’d been harmed in the fight with the sky woman. But the other had returned to the Earth.
It happens, he thought, looking at the two lesser statues across the way. Someone will make more of us.
For days and nights he’d waited. He’d sneezed once when a pigeon flapped dust up into his face.
Come closer, he thought. I will bite.
But the pigeon moved on. Mirkir felt and saw his brothers grin at the little drama.
There is a lot of fun to be had with birds and squirrels. Some subtle, some not.
Maybe it was days or weeks or months. Probably not years, since that would bring the deeper cold, which often meant cracks and itching. He’d slept through a few winters, though, so… maybe. But probably weeks.
Then, that dark gray night, the metal key sounded in the metal gate, Mirkir heard the familiar creaking sound as it swung open and the gentle “clack” as it closed again.
Mirkir leaned forward slightly, trying to get an early look at whomever came through the short, brick tunnel that connected the gate to the garden. It was dark, but he had very good eyesight. Especially in an area he’d been commanded to observe.
Four Blood warriors. Two men, two women. He could tell by their smell, their walk, their posture.
Not a gardener, Mirkir thought. Not Earth. No new master. No new mistress.
The warriors were physically imposing, like most of the Blood. A Mundane would have perceived them as élite athletes or bodybuilders. Strong. Tall. Graceful. The same Mundane would have seen them as wearing comfortable, casual clothes. Jeans and t-shirts, sneakers. A group of varsity runners out for a night on the town. Maybe swimmers, though, with those arms. Good looking kids, they’d have thought.
Among the Houses, though, their aspect was unique. Nearly all Reckoners took upon themselves some clothing or costumes. In many cases it was similar to how they’d appear to Mundanes, as that made Seemings less confusing and time-consuming. Some details were always different, but a Master of Increase wearing a gray suit in the Mundane world would probably be wearing a gray suit among his own kind, even if it was made of various liquid, exotic skins as opposed to wool.
Blood, though, wore nothing but the marks of clan and hearth. They carried nothing on their persons but weapons and tools. If it was cold, they ate more and burned hotter. If it was wet, they asked the rain to avoid their eyes.
Mirkir knew all this without being told, of course. His kind, among all the Houses, remembered the birth of Blood. He understood, at the level of unconscious reasoning, why the warriors showed themselves. Why they exposed, to other Reckoners, as much of their physical selves as possible. My body is my allegiance, the skin, tattoos and piercings claimed. I will not lie or dissemble or cover up what I am and whose I am.
The gargoyle had some measure of respect for Blood. They were easier to understand than many of the other Houses. Especially Release. And Chaos. And Flux. And…
Blood flows, Mirkir thought. A characteristic of Earth that he appreciated in others.
They were arguing about something. Mirkir couldn’t follow it. He wasn’t much for talking or listening quickly. But he could tell they were upset. Two of them kept gesturing at the topiary sculpture that had previously framed the sky woman.
The one I bit, Mirkir thought with some glee.
He’d forgotten that Kaolyn, the greenman, had killed her. Now he remembered. He remembered that Kaolyn had been a fairly easy master. They’d gone to some fun places together. Some big fields. A waterfall.
I like waterfalls, he thought. Hard water. Scratches itches.
These Bloods weren’t pleased, apparently, that the sky woman was gone, that her tree-thing was dried and dead, nothing but sticks. The other two were trying to get the first two to look at a different hedge. One that framed a different creature.
I don’t remember that one.
They’d all been out, at one time or another, for Rain’s guests. There had been a variety of parties and dances in the garden. The topiary creatures, the aethereals, often played a major part. Mirkir didn’t mind them. As long as they kept their place.
The four Bloods seemed to have come to some kind of conclusion. They all gathered around the healthy hedge and began the song that Mirkir knew would summon the aethereal.
No moon, he thought. It will be docile.
Sure enough, when the sky creature stepped out from the between of the curved, fractal branches of the hedge, it was a slow and graceful beast. About the size of a deer, it had a single, slender horn. Not straight, but curved and edged like a scimitar. Mirroring the night sky, it was black and blue and Mirkir knew that many others would have trouble seeing it in this environment.
The four Bloods reached out and stroked the creature, circling it and cooing. They took turns kneeling and looking into its black eyes, whispering to it and then getting up to continue the circle. Almost a dance, it seemed, with the creature more entranced than awake. It turned its head, lowered its horn, took a few steps and then looked around as if dazed.
Elaph, Mirkir remembered its name, now that he could see it. Dusk hind.
As the Blood warriors spoke to the hind and caressed it, Mirkir could see it grow stronger. When it raised its head and let out a short, trumpet-like call, the four Bloods laughed and clapped their hands. After another few minutes of gentle play, the creature seemed fully awake and began to prance a bit, taking short jumps and ducking between the Reckoners. Soon they were all engaged, dancing and calling out, stamping their feet, bowing low and then jumping high.
One of the female bloods began a new song, a high, lilting call like a prayer or ululation. The others caught it up and headed toward the tunnel leading out of the garden. The hind followed, one of the Bloods still resting a hand on its shoulder.
Ours, Mirkir thought. That belongs to Earth. And Bloods were removing it from the garden without a child of the Mother to keep watch.
Shaking his head and grumbling a bit, Mirkir spread his stony, useless, vestigial wings and leaped (fell with purpose, actually) to the grassy ground with a loud “thud.” The Bloods were already in the tunnel, their song and clapping hands echoing against the curved, brick walls. They didn’t hear him.
Trotting toward the tunnel, he heard a sound like rocks rolling down a hill and turned to see his brothers behind him. While Mirkir resembled a kind of cross between a bulldog, toad and Chinese dragon, one of his kin looked more like a very ugly, muscle-bound eagle, and the last like a dolphin with feet.
Hayyel, he growled to the eagle-ish one, with me. Brayach, stay.
The dolphin-thing nodded and leaped straight up into the air, coming to rest on the back corner of the roof – Mirkir’s usual spot, the one with the best view – touching down with a soft clack. The bird-like thing nodded and shook out a mane of feathers shaped like spear-points.
Mirkir made a gesture with his chin – Up! – and Hayyel, too, jumped into the sky. Mirkir couldn’t see him, but from many past adventures, knew his brother would watch from above.
As the gargoyle trotted down the brick tunnel, he heard the key in the lock. This did not trouble him. He waited a moment until he could hear that the Bloods and their pet were more than a block away, then he threw himself at the iron bars of the gate. At the last instant before he crashed into them, he became a small cloud of gravel, shooting between the bars in chunks no bigger than a hen’s egg. When the pieces came to rest on the other side, they formed together back into Mirkir’s previous shape. Though he seemed to be m
issing a tip to one ear: a piece or two of rock that had bounced off the gate and stayed within.
He didn’t care. He’d put them back when he returned.
The sound of Hayyel’s sharp bark from above reminded him there was work to do.
Guard what’s ours, he thought, trotting down the street.
And maybe hunt squirrels.
There was time for both. Always time.
* * * * *
By the time they got to the top of the hill, Wallace was a bit winded. It wasn’t just the climb; they’d circled the hill as they went up, pushing their way through waist-high weeds and volunteer shrubs.
Trying to not drop the shotgun didn’t help.
Near the top, Mrs. McKey -- Hieretha – made Wallace squat down while she peeked over the last clump of hedges to take a look. He could feel her call up a Way of Sight: something simple, probably a magnification and movement-tracking Way. The kind that could basically stay inside your own eyes and ears without tipping anyone off to the presence of a foreign Way.
Are we sneaking up on someone? Wallace wondered. If so, we could have…
His thought was cut short by a man’s voice, shouting out from beyond and above where Wallace could see.
“I know you’re out there!”
“Coc y gath,” Hieretha muttered. Wallace was pretty sure that was Welsh. And not polite.
“What?” he asked, hunkering down even further.
“We’ll have to go in straight. I was hoping to maybe surprise Jimson and his cousins. Maybe talk some sense into him. But if he’s got his spine up, he’s probably not in a listening mood.”
The shout again, louder. “Whoever you are, let me see all of ya or I’ll turn out the dengiin!”
Wallace had heard of dengiin. Read about them. A Reckoner cross-breed of Mundane wolf with attributes of Earth Ways woven into their genes. Dangerous, fast and fanatically loyal.
“Don’t drop the shotgun,” Hieretha said. “And don’t say anything. Just follow me.”