by Travis Peck
The newcomer, still with his unnerving smile on his face, gestured for the female to rise. She quickly obeyed and stood back up on her feet, remarkably spry after experiencing the rigors of giving birth only moments before. The strange ravinor gently put the babe back in its mother’s arms and led them over to where his mount was, reins still being held by the leader. The scholar could tell from the leader’s body language, and the fact that all the ravinors in the clearing had genuflected, that this newcomer was highly ranked.
The superior ravinor picked up the female, who still had her newborn clutched securely in her arms, up to the back of his horse with little effort. He grabbed the reins back from the leader. He began to speak to the leader in a quiet tone. Mon Lyzink couldn’t discern what was being said, but it seemed different from the normal vocalizations; even the leader’s commands had been more akin to a series of grunts, however effective they had been. This wasn’t the same. It sounded flowing and complex like that of any language that one did not understand. It reminded him of the guttural language of the peoples of Zhurak, the rival kingdom to the south of Styr.
The leader ravinor hunched over a little with his shoulders and neck with what the scholar guessed was an acknowledgment of whatever he had just been told. Perhaps that motion was the ravinor’s version of a proper bow. The newcomer took off without further delay, running next to the horse with its reins in hand. In the short time with which Mon Lyzink had to observe this new ravinor, he could tell that he was faster than his brethren, and saw that he easily loped beside the galloping horse. Only once the trio was out of sight did the leader bark at the others to get back on their feet.
The leader vocalized a few more times, and all the ravinors began to leave the glade together. They streamed out of the clearing and away to the west. Thankfully, not in the direction that he had left Martel. The ravinors had left in one large group. Three flocks combined into one under the apparent command of a ravinor sergeant. The sergeant had been given orders by a ravinor prince, who had ran off with a newborn ravinor babe along with the mother—on horseback. Mon Lyzink had not received so many shocks in his whole life than he had in the last candle.
The scholar stayed hidden behind the boulder, his mind racing with questions that these new developments raised. Everything he had known about ravinors seemed to be changing, and not in a way that would be beneficial to humans. Quite the opposite, he suspected.
It was past midday by the time he finally came back to the present and went back to find Martel. He couldn’t wait to share his findings with his apprentice.
Mon Lyzink returned to the spot where he had left Martel. He noticed the tracks of the crutch and a single footprint that led deeper into the densest part of this stretch of forest. He gave a bird call, a yellow-breasted spinner to be specific, and listened. No response. He made the call again. This time, he heard the answering undulating warble of the spinner. He walked off toward the sound. After a few more calls, and hearing a few more return calls, Mon Lyzink found his way to a large silverwood tree; it was not lost on him that he was using the same method the flocks had used to pinpoint one another’s location.
“I have much to tell,” he said after he crawled through the low branches to gain entry to the sheltered space beneath. His apprentice eased himself to a more upright position, still leaning with his back against the trunk, and his injured ankle elevated on a rock. Martel’s face was sallow, the pain from his injured ankle must be excruciating, but still the apprentice looked attentive as the scholar began to recount what he had seen.
Chapter Five
THE OTHER CHILDREN CALLED her the Monster, or the Horror, but Moira did not mind, or perhaps she would mind if she had no other worries. But Moira was a serious young lady—a worrier. She had what the town’s healer politely called an ‘affliction.’ Her parents—her proper mother, rather, was always careful to mention her affliction in low, secretive tones. She almost preferred being called Monster by the other children instead of her mother glossing over the fact in polite society. It was dishonest, and Moira was nothing if not honest.
Moira’s affliction was a badly disfigured face. Her right eye was a cloudy, milky white; her left eye, a normal green. She couldn’t see normally out of her right eye, or at least, she couldn’t see the same way she did out of her good eye. Spots of light and dark, and whirls of bright color, would whisk across her vision. She learned to recognize people and objects from their own unique pattern of light—or dark—swirls of color. She didn’t need to do this, of course, as her left eye functioned perfectly fine; she did it because sometimes she liked to view the world differently than anyone else could.
Other than her unusual eye, the top half of her face looked perfectly normal. It was the lower half of her face that was terribly scarred and cracked and leathery. If she wore a veil like the ladies did far to the south, her mother said she would be pretty. But everyone here knew what she looked like, and it wasn’t going to fool anyone. There had been no accident at birth, no fire or sickness; she had just been born that way. She had overheard her parents fighting sometimes when she was younger, and her father always brought up that her face was the way it was because of her mother’s indiscretion. Moira’s mother’s indiscretion, had caused Moira’s affliction. Unlike her affliction, Moira did not quite know what her mother’s indiscretion had been about when she had first heard of it. One of the older girls had said that her mother had lain with another man besides her father. Though, what that would have to do with her affliction, she had not been able to guess; she’d lain down on a bed with her cousins before with no ill effects.
Of course, now, she had come into her majority and was her father’s sole heir at the age of sixteen, so she knew something about it—however theoretical. In Styr, sixteen was the age when children became adults. Most girls her age were impatient to grow up, but Moira knew better. She had to admit, though, that part of her reluctance was due to her disfigured face. She knew that the young men didn’t see her in that way, and so resigned herself to an extended childhood that would lead straight into an early spinsterhood which would likely last all of her life.
Her father was kind, and she loved being around him. But he was always busy and often traveled around, keeping an eye on his various holdings and business interests. She mostly kept out of sight, and her family was well off enough, and proper enough, to want to keep her out of sight too. Her mother did, that is. Moira and her mother did not get along at all, and she was always home.
If it were just her and her father, she thought things would be much more to her liking. Her father had taken her riding a few days ago, and it had been so much fun. Much more fun than sitting around the house sewing or reading poetry. Not that she didn’t like to read; she would spend candles upon candles reading, but learning those vapid lovesick poems that her mother insisted she memorize was enough to make her sick! And the sewing? It was all well and good to stitch up a loose hem or otherwise repair a tear in clothing—but doilies? No, thank you. But her mother always insisted, and her mother’s most glaring trait was insistence. Sometimes, Moira thought her mother would make her sew for candles on end just to spite her. She wasn’t even good at it, despite all the days of mind-numbing practice.
It was her dreams that Moira was most interested in. She had had them for as long as she could remember, for all of her sixteen years. She never told her mother about her dreams. Even to her father, she might mention she had a particularly vivid dream, but she would never go into much detail. She would never be allowed to leave her room again if she told them what she actually dreamt of.
So it was that she found herself, once again, stuck inside with her mother, sewing. At least they were in the sunroom and it was a beautiful day outside. But that just made it worse, knowing that just outside the large windows that lined the west side of the sunroom there was a warm, inviting afternoon waiting for her. She longed for the heat of the sunlight to gently warm her skin as a light breeze kicked up from the no
rth in the afternoon to cool her off.
She bit her tongue, lost in her thought of enjoying a nice day outside. She managed to prick herself yet again with the needle. By this time, Moira would have believed her fingers would be as hard and leathery as her scarring, but no such luck. Her mother tssked at her as only a disapproving mother could. Moira gave her mother her sweetest, most well-behaved smile; it seemed her mother was not to be fooled and scowled in return.
That’s going to be another candle of sewing now! Her mother was not one to forgive slights, whatever they were and whomever committed them against her; real or imagined.
Moira’s heart leapt as she heard hoofbeats pounding on the graveled road leading up to their manor house. A groom’s voice sounded, and it was answered by a deep, rich baritone. Father! Before her mother could order her continued interment, Moira jumped to her feet and raced to the entryway. She had not expected him to return from his trip to the north for another day. She raced over the slick polished wood floors. Her hard-soled shoes slapped against the smooth surface and echoed through the high-arched ceilings. She saw her father handing off a satchel and his stallion’s reins to an awaiting groom.
Her father was a large man. He towered over everyone on the estate, except maybe Daeris, who was her father’s captain of the guards. Her father, Lord Geryn to others, had kind eyes framed by a thick head of hair above, and wreathed below by an overgrown black beard—a hint of gray beginning to show. Her mother hated that beard, which only made Moira love it more. His eyes lit up as she launched herself into his arms. She shrieked in delight as her father encompassed her in his embrace. The scent of horse and travel didn’t bother her in the slightest.
“My little Mole!” her father said, greeting her with her nickname that only he used.
She liked it better than Monster, of course, but honestly she had had no control as a baby when she had liked to burrow into her father’s arms, yet she was the one who had to live with that name. “You’re home early,” she said, her voice muffled by his cloak as, she would regret to admit, she was burrowing mole-like.
Her father’s eyes lost some of their luster at that, but he pretended that nothing was wrong. “I had to see you sooner,” he replied. Though Moira knew that he was glad to see her, there was something more pressing that had forced him to cut his trip short. Despite her worry over whatever was troubling him, she laughed as he twirled her in the air and carried her inside.
“Prayg,” Lord Geryn ordered the stablemaster, “would you send word to Daeris and Evin to meet me in the library? Oh, and have some refreshments sent up as well. It was a strenuous journey.”
“Of course, sir,” Prayg said and gave a short nod. At the estate, her father saw little point in wasting time and effort with courtly flourishes, bows, and the like. Even at court, her father only observed the bare minimum of such foolery from his retinue, and then only grudgingly.
Lord Geryn was one of the wealthiest merchants in all of the Styric Empire. He owned mines, ranches, farms, ships, vineyards; nearly every industry or trade practiced across the land had at least some small reliance on one of her father’s various holdings. Even with all the prestige and trappings of power his great wealth brought him, her father would always be more comfortable staying busy working rather than idling at court.
Her father swung her down with a mock grimace of how heavy she was. Moira laughed. Her father was as strong as a bull, and she was only a slight young woman, which happened to be the only trait of hers that had her mother’s approval.
“All right, my Mole,” her father said, “I will see you at supper, and after we eat, we will look at the stars if you wish.” Her father knew how much she loved that activity, so now she knew he was trying to placate her to leave him be as he handled whatever important events had transpired to bring him home early. Equally, however, her father knew that she would pester him relentlessly if he didn’t give her some of the details.
Moira stared at her father expectantly and waited. He gave her a stern look. He exaggerated the scowl so it would show through his beard, but he quickly relented, his eyes softening.
“Ravinor attack.”
“How many days ago?” she asked.
“Three or so. A village to the north. Deepbrooke. Messages are flying all over Kharisk about it.”
Moira’s spirits fell. She knew it was going to be bad tidings, but now she knew she would have one of her dreams again. One of her serious dreams. She dreaded it with every fiber in her being, yet she also knew it was her self-appointed responsibility to witness it. Moira always had a special dream a few days after a ravinor attack of such a scale. In fact, she had the special dream most nights, but this one would be worse than usual. She tried to hide her distress but must have failed.
“It will be okay, my Mole. Deepbrooke is days away, and our defenses our strong. Daeris and I won’t let anything happen here.” Her father misread exactly what she was afraid of.
She knew the ravinors would have great difficulty breaking onto the estate grounds. She was worried because she knew she would see the Shadowman and the terrible queen tonight in her dreams. Moira was beginning to think the Shadowman was starting to feel her watching, and she knew he wouldn’t like that at all. There goes my appetite for dinner tonight. Mother should be pleased.
Moira steeled herself and gave her father a brave smile. “I know you’ll keep me safe, Father.” If only in the waking world, she added in her mind. Her father was convinced, or maybe his mind was preoccupied with his impending meeting with Daeris and Evin.
Her father gave her a quick embrace and strode down the hall toward the library. Turning back, he said, “It should be a clear night, little Mole, and a full moon. We’ll be able to see everything.”
Moira gave a sickly smile. She felt queasy now. Her father was already gone, so at least he didn’t notice her reaction. She wished she could skip this night now. A full moon seemed to intensify her serious dreams. Moira could almost feel the Shadowman waiting for her, skulking in the corners of rooms, or indistinctly lurking at the edge of her vision. She was not the Shadowman’s target, though. At least, not yet. That dubious honor was reserved for the poor victims forced into the dream. She didn’t know how they were brought there, whether it was the Shadowman, or the queen, but she knew that their souls were at stake. And sadly she was the Witness. When she was younger, she had cried and cried, lamenting over why she had to be the one to see souls sent to damnation. Why not someone older and braver?
Five years ago, she had begun to see her dreams as a duty rather than a curse; a burden that only she could bear. Though it was a heavy weight, she no longer cried about her role as Witness. She saved her tears for the victims that did not make it out of the dream intact. A few made it out and those made her rejoice, but, try as she might, she had no power over what happened there, no power to aid or warn the victims sent there. She could, however, glean a few details about each person as they entered. She didn’t know if she was actually reading their minds, or if it was simply by being there that she was able to sense something that each person radiated in that vulnerable place. She tried it waking, and it had never worked.
After she had accepted her duty, she began to keep a journal. An ever-expanding tribute of those people who would be doomed to the life of a ravinor to the end of their days. Names and a few particulars about each person quickly filled up the pages of her journal. She had perfected her tiny, precise scrawl that enabled her to put more names in each journal before filling it up—she had already filled five of them to date. It would not do for anyone to find the journals, so she had squirreled them away in various little niches and hideouts around the estate. It was a large estate, and there were plenty of such nooks and crannies that could accommodate many more journals. Sadly, she knew that she would need that space. Each year, more and more names filled her pages, faster and faster than they ever had before.
It was still candles away from her nighttime task, and there was no way
she could go back to sewing with her mother after learning about the demise of all those unfortunate people. Moira accepted that her duty tonight would be awful, but it was hers to do, so she might as well enjoy the remaining time until she had to add more names in her journal. Decided on a course of action, she raced outside while grabbing hold of the hems of her dress to keep them from getting soiled. Moira headed toward the stable. Their stable was a massive outbuilding that was close to the manor and nearly as large. Horse breeding was one of her father’s favorite pastimes, and he had a stable that was the envy of the empire.
She burst through the side entry, startling Prayg the stablemaster, who was tending to her father’s horse. He nodded politely, “Will the young mistress be riding then?” Prayg was older even than their steward, Evin, but he knew all things equine, and her father had entrusted him with all the horses in his stable; the breeding, the training, all of it passed through Prayg’s capable hands.
“I thought I might before dinner, if it’s all right with you?” Moira asked. Her father’s influence had rubbed off on her; she never abused her station when talking with anyone—servant, shepherd, or convict. She had been taught to treat people with respect. Technically, she was a lady of the empire and could easily order Prayg, or even other lords, to do what she asked. Certainly, her mother would have approved of such high-handed behavior. But she liked Prayg and knew that if she upset him, her father would hear of it, and she would need an awfully good reason to have mistreated the kindly old man.
“Of course, you can,” Prayg said with a kindly smile. “Take Helia out, she’s been begging for a good run.”
Moira gave a cry of delight and ran down to the end of the stalls where Helia was stabled. “Thanks!” she shouted over her shoulder to the elderly stablemaster.