Guardians Watch

by Eric T Knight

  Near the center of the square was a statue of some long-dead man peering at the horizon. At its base was the source of the disturbance. He was a little man of indeterminate age, with a plain, forgettable face. Cara shook her head. It was kind of hard to look at him. Perhaps he had a small mustache; perhaps he didn’t. He had brown hair. Or he might have been bald. His clothes were those of a common workman and he carried a small bundle, maybe a loaf of bread he was taking home to his family or some small tools for his trade. There was something about the bundle. When she tried to look at it more closely it seemed to slip away from her. Over and over she tried, then discovered she was looking at the statue instead, or studying a building across the square.

  He removed the cloth from the bundle and raised something to his lips. All at once Cara knew what it was and what he was.

  The man was a Musician.

  Cara smiled. All her life she’d wanted to see a Musician, but they didn’t make it as far into the hinterlands as Rane Haven. Several of the Tenders there had seen them and she’d asked them over and over to describe the experience to her. At which point they’d always shake their heads and say something about how it just couldn’t be described. What did their instruments look like then? What did they look like? The answer was always the same: I can’t remember. They couldn’t remember, but the experience was one they’d never forget.

  Now she was going to get to see one herself. This was good, not just for her, but for everyone. The people of Qarath could use a break from the madness that assailed them. Music, real Music, could make a real difference.

  It looked as though his instrument was a flute, though it was difficult to tell as he was still cloaking it while he prepared himself. Musicians were masters at hiding in plain sight, bending Song around them to disguise what they were and to disguise their instruments as something they were not, an ordinary item perhaps, or a tool.

  Then the Musician began to play and Cara was transported. He drew LifeSong to him, through his instrument, and then passed it back to the people. His Music was sunshine on green leaves. It was fields heavy with crops and trees laden with fruit. It was children playing in the rain and fresh-baked bread.

  People lit up. Smiles spread across their faces as every one of them stopped what they were doing. They drifted closer to him, their expressions distant. Two boys that were fighting stopped and one put his hand on the other’s shoulder as they faced the Musician.

  A bent, gray-haired woman was yelling at a young man, shaking an arthritic finger at him. When the Music started she stopped in the middle of a sentence, her finger still suspended in mid-air. A smile spread across her face and she turned toward the Musician.

  Cara moved closer. The crowd was starting to get thicker, closing in about the man and cutting him off from her.

  Suddenly Cara’s peacefulness shifted to alarm. A new flow had appeared, as if drawn by his Music. Where the other flows were like thin streams of clear, golden water, this was yellow and cancerous.

  Cara shouted, but her voice was lost in the power of his Music. She tried to get to him, but there were too many people in the way. Horrified, she watched as the yellow flow entered his flute. His eyes bulged and strangled noises came from him, but he kept playing.

  But now the Music which emerged was harsh and grating, filled with madness and death. Whole forests dead and gray. People driven mad by some disease. Entire cities burned and the land turned black while the rivers were clogged with corpses. The effect on the listeners was immediate. Their faces stretched in horror. People screamed. Some fell to the ground. The Musician’s back arched and his face contorted, but he could not bring the flute away from his lips. He writhed and capered in a mad dance, his eyes red, spittle flying from his mouth.

  And through it all the insane music climbed ever higher. Cara fell over on her side, screaming but unable to hear herself. Wild, disjointed scenes danced behind her eyes while worms crawled under her skin. She was dimly aware of people around her on the ground as well, thrashing and kicking. It seemed to go on forever and all she wanted in the world was to throw herself from a cliff, from any place high, and make the music end with a thud and a snap of breaking bone.

  Darkness pressed in on her vision and the ground seemed to be pitching underneath her, but she could see the Musician and how he fought the poisoned flow. He went to his knees, muscles standing out in a futile effort to tear the flute from his lips. Blood poured from his nose and ears.

  Then the music rose in a final shriek and the flute exploded. The Musician pitched over on his side and blessed silence returned.

  It was several minutes before Cara could sit up. A terrible headache pounded behind her eyes; she tasted blood in her mouth and knew she’d bitten her own tongue. Around her people were crying and a few were struggling to rise. Some lay motionless, blood pooling under them. A few people had entered the square and were walking through the crowd, looking for loved ones or helping people to their feet.

  Weakly, Cara crawled over to the Musician. He lay forgotten, a crumpled, shrunken shape. His whole face was bruised, his eyes wild and staring. The flute was splinters, some of which had lodged in his face. She closed his eyes and rolled him onto his back.

  There was a hand on her shoulder.

  “We will take him now,” said a voice.

  She turned her head to see two men standing over her. They were nondescript, utterly ordinary in every way and she knew they were Musicians as well. One had a bow slung over his shoulder and the other had what looked like a pouch such as messengers carried. The air around each blurred somewhat when she rubbed her eyes and she knew those were their instruments.

  Gently they lifted the broken form of their comrade and carried him away. Cara watched them go, realizing a moment later that she already was unable to picture the faces of any of them.

  Forty-one

  Two days after Rehobim left with the war party Shakre had her first vision. It was not the kind of vision that some called prophecy, born of a fever dream, bizarre glimpses of things that might or might not come true someday. No, this was more as if she was all of a sudden seeing through someone, or something, else’s eyes.

  She was walking through the forest, looking for plants she could use to replenish her healing supplies. Quite a few of the refugees showed up with burns or other wounds and she had gone through most of what she’d brought with her. The problem was that the plants down here were very different from what lived on the Plateau, so nearly two decades of knowledge gained up there was useless. She had tried to call on older knowledge—from her days when she was still living at the Haven—but the land around here was much different from that too. Where the Haven sat in a desert, all rocks and cactus and thorns, the land here was thick forest, ferns and rushing streams. With Elihu’s help—he could not speak with the plants down here the way he’d been able to on the Plateau, but he still had a deep connection with them—she had been able to identify a moss that worked well for packing wounds and a small bush whose root could be brewed to make a tea that was effective against fevers, but it was a far cry from the wealth of options she was used to.

  She stopped and looked around, wondering if Jehu was nearby. He had been a great help so far, tirelessly searching for the plants she asked for. He was a man reborn and he seemed determined to do anything he could for his people. He was often the first to greet new refugees, helping them build shelters of lashed-together limbs packed tight with leaves and mud. He was usually up early gathering firewood or carrying water.

  Shakre did not see Jehu, but her eye fell on an unusual pale flower growing from a dead stump and she turned to look at it closer. As she did, all at once she was no longer looking at the forest.

  She was looking at a great city from above and some distance away. Then she was hurtling towards it. Its walls were made of a stone so dark they were almost black. On a plain outside the city stood a mass of soldiers, all staring at something on top of the wall. It was a figure, but she couldn�
�t see it clearly.

  Now she turned away and raced in the other direction. It was then she realized she was seeing through the wind’s eyes.

  The wind changed direction yet again, speeding back towards the city, then turning away just when she thought she would get a good look at the figure. It did this several more times and she came to understand that the wind feared the figure, but at the same time it was consumed with curiosity and was drawn to it as a moth to flame.

  Finally, it turned toward the city once again, going closer than before and she saw the figure clearly. It was tall and skeletally lean, its skin white and smooth and hairless. Its face was completely featureless except for two holes where a nose should be, and a short, vertical slash underneath.

  It turned its face toward her and Shakre felt a sick lurch in the pit of her stomach, coupled with a sudden, desperate desire to get away from it. It raised its hands, the palms facing outwards, and her fear turned into terror. An eye opened in the center of its forehead and fixed on her. In that instant she knew she had drawn its attention, that it knew her now and had marked her.

  Shakre blinked and she was back in the forest once more, on her hands and knees, struggling to breathe past the icy hand that gripped her heart. She heard footsteps approaching at a run and then Jehu was there, helping her up.

  “What happened? Are you okay?” His fine features were marked with worry. With Werthin gone, Jehu seemed to have appointed himself her guardian.

  “I don’t know,” she admitted.

  “I should not have gone so far,” he said. “I should have stayed close.”

  Shakre shook her head. “I am okay. I’m not sure what happened, but it wasn’t anything you could have helped with.”

  “You should sit down,” he said earnestly. “Do you want me to fetch Elihu?”

  “No,” she said. “I’ll be fine.” Seeing the look on his face she patted him on the shoulder. “You can escort me to find Elihu, though. I want to talk to him.”

  Later, after they had found Elihu and Jehu had gone on his way, Shakre sat down on a fallen log, rubbing her temples. “I think I saw through the wind,” she said. She went on to describe the experience. “It is more accurate to say that I saw through the perception of an aranti, a being that lives in the wind. I think it is the same one I used to heal Jehu and to find you and the rest of the villagers on the Plateau. I think maybe I’m connected to this creature somehow now and that is why I saw through it.”

  “Why not?” Elihu replied. “We have seen stranger. Plants have only a dim awareness, but now and then there is one who is much more. Though I have not found any down here yet,” he added. “Why not the wind as well? Perhaps the stones and the water also are home to creatures that we have not learned how to listen to.”

  Shakre nodded. Who was she to say what was possible anymore?

  “Do you know the city you saw?”

  Shakre shook her head. “No, but I believe it was Fanethrin.”

  “There were thousands of soldiers, you said. Could they have been Kasai’s army? Did you see if they were marked with the burn?”

  “No. The aranti was not interested in them and so I could not see. But I feel in my heart that they were.”

  “Which means the figure you saw on the wall…”

  “Must have been Kasai,” Shakre said reluctantly. “That’s what I was thinking.” She stood up and started pacing. “It saw me, Elihu. It saw me.”

  “You don’t know that,” Elihu said gently.

  “But I do. It knows of me now. It knows of us. We are not a problem for it yet, but our numbers are growing. Rehobim will lead the Takare deeper and deeper into the western lands and eventually Kasai will respond.” She turned frightened eyes on Elihu. “You don’t understand. The Takare may very well be the greatest fighters ever, but Kasai has tens of thousands of soldiers. We will never defeat them.”

  Elihu took hold of her arm and stopped her pacing. “You guess and worry about things that may never be.”

  “Do I? Think about it, Elihu.” She pulled away from him, picked up a stick and started to draw on the ground. “Here’s Fanethrin in the northwest of Atria, west from where we are. South of us is the city of Karthije. Beyond it are a handful of smaller cities, and further south and a little east is Qarath. Down here, in the south, is the Gur al Krin. That’s where the Banishment happened, where Melekath’s city, Durag’otal, was sunk under the ground. Kasai is raising an army, right? It must be to support Melekath when he finally frees himself. Now look at how it is all laid out.” She waited while Elihu studied the crude map. “When Kasai gets ready to take its army to the Gur al Krin there are two choices. The shortest route is to go due south, then swing southeast once past the Firkath Mountains.” Which will take Kasai directly by Rane Haven, Shakre thought sickly. Oh, Netra. “But why would he go that way and leave the armies of Karthije and Qarath at the army’s back? I don’t know much about war, but if it was me I’d want to go this way, swinging around the Firkaths on the east side, and crush those cities while I was at it. That way there’s no one left to threaten Melekath.”

  Elihu was silent for a time, digesting what she had said. Finally, he nodded. “Your thinking is sound.”

  “If that happens, Kasai’s army will pass right by us. We need to be ready to move.”

  “If that is Fanethrin you saw,” Elihu added. “It may have been somewhere else.”

  “True,” she conceded. “But it makes sense. It is a big city and there are a lot of people nearby to swell his ranks. We can assume Kasai is not too far away, since it was sending soldiers up onto the Plateau. The only other cities it could be would be on the other side of the mountains, and I’d think those would be too far away. Why raise an army so far from your master?”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know what I can do,” she admitted, sinking down onto the fallen tree again. “Rehobim isn’t going to listen to me.”

  “Perhaps Youlin.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Kasai will not be able to bring such a force against us without our knowing it far ahead of time.”

  “I know,” Shakre said. “They can’t sneak up on us and they can’t keep up if we run. But it’s more than that. This is bigger than just the Takare. This is about all the people of Atria and the lands beyond. It may be about the future of Life itself. We are all in this together. We should be telling Karthije and Qarath what we know. We should be fighting with them!”

  “I cannot see Rehobim agreeing to that,” Elihu said with a wry smile.

  “No. Me either. I feel like we should do something but I don’t know what.”

  “Watch for more chances to see through the wind’s eyes,” Elihu suggested. “We should know all we can.”

  Shakre nodded.

  “I will talk to Youlin,” he added. “As a Walker, she may listen to me. If I can convince her, she may be able to convince Rehobim. But we will need to know more. We do not have much yet.”

  That night Shakre awakened from a sound sleep with a sense that something was wrong. She opened her eyes, but instead of seeing the roof of the little shelter she shared with Elihu, she saw a very different scene.

  The skeletal, white-skinned figure stood in a cobblestone plaza on top of a huge block of crudely cut stone. It was motionless, its arms hanging by its sides, its head tilted back as if it studied the sky. Tall, iron braziers ringed the square, flickering in the wind. Arrayed before the figure were several dozen figures clad in gray robes. All were kneeling, their faces pressed to the ground.

  Kasai raised its hands and held them out, palms outward. The eye in the center of its forehead opened suddenly. From its palms came a wave of gray fire that engulfed the kneeling figures. They began to writhe. Some came to their feet, only to fall back down, while others thrashed on the ground. Their mouths stretched wide in screams that made no sound. The entire scene was silent, surreal. They clawed at their eyes as they thrashed, while gray flames flickered
around their heads. Kasai watched impassively.

  In moments it was over. Kasai closed its hands and the gray flames died out. Its lipless mouth opened and it seemed to speak, though again Shakre could hear nothing. But when it was done, the robed figures rose to their feet unsteadily and stood before it. They turned their faces toward their master. Where their eyes had been were only blackened holes.

  Shakre gasped and sat up. A moment later Elihu sat up and she grabbed his arm.

  “What is it?” Elihu asked.

  “Another vision.”

  “Was it bad?”

  “What do you think?”

  “My arm hurts.”

  “Do you remember the blinded man who led the attack on the shelter?” Shakre asked.

  “One does not forget such things.”

  “I think I know what happened to him.” Shakre described what she had seen.

  “Kasai controls its army through them, then,” Elihu said.

  “I think so.” She leaned her head on his shoulder and forced herself to loosen her grip on his arm. “Oh, Elihu. The suffering of those who went through that. I could feel it. I couldn’t hear anything that went on, but I could see and I could feel. At least, I imagine that I could feel it. Such pain.” She shivered.

  “It helps to know anything we can,” he said. “If you could control the aranti, learn more, maybe Youlin would listen to me.” He had approached Youlin around the fire that night, but she had sat lost in her hood, not even acknowledging his words. She did not move until later, when she went to some of the new refugees and led them down the paths that led to their past lives, awakening the forgotten skills within them.

  “I will try,” Shakre said. “But I don’t like it. These are not things I want to see.”