by Jeff Wheeler
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
The melody was low and plaintive, and the sound invoked a hundred feelings of sadness. It was not made by a voice or any instrument she had ever heard. The sound curled into her ears, lilting and thick with sorrow. It was the sound of a breaking heart.
Phae opened her eyes to blackness, save for thin veils of moonlight seeping in from the shattered windows. The sound was very near and she thought she saw a glint of metal. She blinked rapidly, trying to understand what was happening. What was making such mournful music? Why did its presence threaten her with tears? The Kishion was cloaked and bent over something, but she saw his gloves on the floor, his fingers holding a delicately small locket. The locket was open and she perceived the music coming from it.
She studied him silently, not daring to move. He was fascinated by it. His fingers turned the locket over, examining the edges around the seam and then trailing the thread of a broken gold chain. He wrapped one end of the chain around his finger, twirling it in loops absently. Then he brought it up to his ear, as if straining to hear something deeper than the music. She expected him to jiggle it next, but he did not. He unwound the chain and set the charm in the palm of his hand, studying it more. She saw his head cock to one side, then he turned and gazed at her.
The sudden look startled her. She could almost see his eyes, but the shadow of his cowl prevented it. He did not look chagrined at being found out by her. He seemed not to care the least about her feelings. He studied it again.
“What is that?” Phae asked, almost afraid to ruin the spell the music was casting.
“A trinket,” he replied softly, holding it between two fingers and examining it again. “They sell these in Kenatos.”
Phae was amazed. “How does it work? The song is…haunting.”
He nodded. “These have been around for centuries. Only a Paracelsus knows how they are made. The music stops after a while. It intrigues me.”
He was talking to her. That was something.
“What is the melody? Do you know it?”
The Kishion shook his head. “I don’t. But I should. It is…familiar to me somehow.”
She waited several long moments before speaking. “You’ve heard it before then?” she asked, keeping her voice low and timid. She did not want to push him back into silence.
“I can’t remember. I believe I have.”
She licked her lips and carefully pushed herself up. “It sounds like autumn. Like the first rain after the death of a friend. It is powerful music.”
She saw him nod in agreement. “It is the sound of mourning. I have heard it before.”
Phae slowly stroked her arm, listening to the melody—drawing it into her heart. It made her think of her plight, of never seeing the Winemiller vineyard or Trasen again. It made her heart quail with sadness and longing. It made her want to cry. What creature had created such a thing? The sound of it would haunt her forever, yet its suffering was somehow soothing.
“Where did you get it?” she asked after another lengthy pause. She was very near to tears and felt her throat tighten. Its sadness permeated her bones and marrow.
The locket clicked shut. Her heart lurched when the music ceased. It almost made her plead to hear it again. She was desperate to hear it. Wincing with emotion, she stared at him and saw the expression on his mouth—full of bitterness and almost a sneer at her question.
“From a man that I killed,” he said flatly. “No more questions. You would not like knowing more than that.”
In that moment, there was a snuffling growl at the main door and the light was eclipsed by an even darker shadow—a bear with a shiny black pelt. It yawned with a bellowing cough, dropped to all fours, and charged the Kishion, all muscle and bulk and slathering teeth. A dust-like glitter shook from its pelt as it charged, bringing a strange phosphorescent light with it.
Phae screamed.
The beast was unlike any bear she had seen roaming the mountains of Stonehollow. It was bigger, hunchbacked, and both of its eyes glowed silver. With a roar and snarl it charged, its claws scraping the floor as it hurtled at them.
The Kishion was on his feet instantly, blocking its charge with his own body. The beast smashed into him with a shoulder, sending him back with crushing force into the stone wall. She watched the Kishion’s head snap back, jolted. It started on him without a pause, roaring with fury and raking him with claws and teeth.
She was frozen in terror for only a moment before her legs commanded her to run. She went straight to the nearest window and vaulted out of it, hearing the beast shift and lunge after her. She landed in the tall grass at an odd angle and went down. Its head protruded from the window and slaver splattered against her cheek. It roared in fury and Phae quickly rolled through the grass, struggling to her feet, and sprinted toward the orchard. She knew that bears were faster and that they could run up hills or down hills equally well. Maneuvering through trees might slow it a little, but she did not care. She was fleeing from two enemies at once. The bear’s frightening arrival was the luck she needed.
The limbs of the pear trees whipped at her, but she kept on going, ducking and dodging around them. A roar sounded in the night sky behind her. She heard huffing and then a bark of pain. A battle was raging inside the skull of a home. Phae stumbled over a tree root and went down. The impact bruised her arms, but she shoved herself up and hurried, praying that both of the beasts would kill each other.
Phae made it through the grove and reached the edge of a dilapidated fence. The moon provided fragile light, and she slowed to gauge the distance. She planted her hands on the edge of the fence and jagged slivers bit into her palms. They stung, but she managed to cross the fence wall and start running into the overgrown meadow beyond. There was a steep hill ahead of her and she ran toward the base of it where she found a copse of trees that would help provide some cover.
An owl hooted and flew overhead, nearly making her shriek in fright. The sounds of the battle were intensifying behind her, carried by the breeze. Growls and snarls brought images of violence to her mind. Then a death cry sounded, a shriek of pain followed by silence. The sound came from the bear. She knew it instinctively. The Kishion had killed it.
Fear.
He had warned her not to run from him. He had threatened her. Panic lengthened her stride. She was huffing to breathe, desperate for wings to carry her away. What would he do when he caught her? Her stomach coiled with dread. Of course he would catch her. How could she run from a man who did not sleep? Who did not even tire? Who could not be killed, even by a beast three times his size?
Why had she run? What was she thinking? What could she possibly hope to accomplish against the Arch-Rike’s most fearsome minion? She was nothing but a young woman. She had the fireblood, but she already supposed that fire would not harm him if bee stings did not. There was only her small axe to fight him off and she remembered how Trasen had fared against him. She had nothing. Nothing!
Phae’s mind was scrambled with horror and desperation. Maybe he wouldn’t bother taking her back to Kenatos now. She was too much trouble. He would just slit her throat and apologize to the Arch-Rike that she had been too difficult. Her legs thrashed in the long grasses, her stride increasing even more.
What could she do?
Should she go back? Should she apologize? Should she continue to try to escape and hope the battle with the creature had wounded him somehow? Perhaps it had. Perhaps it was a spirit creature that could damage him. Too many thoughts jabbed and poked inside her head, she could not decide which one to heed. Flee or stay? Submit or defy? Grovel or scorn? She hated the helpless feeling, the crack that drained her courage like a punctured cask. Trasen would know what to do. Master Winemiller would know what to do. Phae was only terrified and confused. She stole a look behind.
An uneven bit of earth and the tangle of scrub caught her foot and she went down hard again, landing in a patch of sharp brambles. The fall stole her breath and she
lay gasping in the meadow grass, close to a copse of trees but still too far from it to hide. Her ear and cheek were cut on the brambles, causing sharp pain. She pressed her hand there and it came away wet with blood. It hurt, but she would not cry out and sucked in her breath to keep from sobbing. The distance to the hills was surprisingly great still, despite her run. It had seemed near on first glance. The rim of the hill slope was closer. Phae crawled, moving forward through the scrub, desperate. She gasped for air and risked a look back across the meadow.
A black smudge in the moonlight, parting the grass at a dead run.
He was following her.
A fresh spasm of dread fueled her to run again. Phae rose and sprinted, willing herself to reach the edge of trees, ignoring the pain of her ear. Perhaps she would find another oak there. Perhaps. Her stomach roiled with the jostling contents, bringing nausea to supplement the bile. Sweat streaked down her skin, but on she ran, pushing herself faster. She had to get away. She had to run to be safe.
The sound of his boots thumping on the ground behind her alerted Phae that she would not make the edge of the woods in time. The hill loomed above and then it seemed to split into two, as if next to a giant mirror of itself. Were there two hills instead of one? The false light of the moon was tricking her. The copse of trees was almost there before she realized it wasn’t a copse at all. It was a wall covered with vines and foliage. There was a gate in the middle of the wall. A stone archway rose above the tattered fragments of leaves and branches. The archway was derelict, with gaps of stone missing from it. There was an iron gate in the archway and the gate was closed.
Phae realized she had been running toward the safety of the woods only to find a barred door in her path. Defeat struck her heart like an anvil hammer. She slowed in despair, dropping to her knees in exhaustion, and fell down on her arms, gasping for breath and waiting with dread for the Kishion to reach her.
There was nothing else she could do but beg for her life.
Trying to squelch her panic, she pushed up and turned to face the Kishion. Her chest was heaving.
“I’m…sorry!” she pleaded, holding her hands in front of her wardingly. “Please! Please! Don’t kill me!”
He had slowed his run as he approached but there was a look of fury in his eyes that made her quail. His shirt was in tatters as was his cloak. Both hardly looked like garments made by men. The muscles beneath his shirt were bulging with the effort of his pursuit, but he did not look winded. Not at all.
“Please!” she begged, trying to look him in the eye. The moonlight was not enough. She knew it would not be.
The Kishion drew his blade, his mouth twisting with fury.
She was going to die. He was going to kill her.
“I warned you not to run from me,” he said in a seething voice. “There is nowhere you can run that I cannot find you. Nowhere!” The pent-up rage in his voice exploded.
Phae quailed. “I’m sorry!”
He was standing over her, dagger poised in his grip. Every part of him felt dangerous and threatening. His tattered clothes rippled in the night breeze. “I should kill you now. Do you know how easy it would be? I could stop this chase and return back alone. I kill. That is what I do. I know a hundred ways. And you, a foolish girl from Stonehollow, thought you could just run away from me.” His voice throbbed with menace.
“Please don’t,” she whispered hoarsely.
She saw the muscles in his arm tighten so hard they started to tremble. Then he crouched in front of her, the cowl shadowing his face. “Why not? You are a threat to the Arch-Rike. I could end it now. Do you understand me? I do not have to bring you back alive.”
Her heart filled with pure dread. He was trained to kill. She knelt silently, wishing for a stray bit of moonlight to expose his eyes.
Suddenly, he jerked her wrist and spun her face first to the ground, pushing her bloody cheek to the hissing grass. His knee fixed on her side, and she felt the dagger tip press against her back. His breath brushed her ear.
“I warned you once. I won’t do it again. Do not run from me. Do not stray from my side unless I bid you to. Do you understand me, girl?”
Sobbing in pain and terror, Phae nodded emphatically. She clutched her wounded ear, feeling the blood dribble through her fingers. The fear and suspense were horrible. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she whimpered. “I won’t leave…I won’t ever leave your side. I promise.”
When she said those words, something flickered inside her. A premonition of dread.
“The ancients were truly wise. I have read on a fraying leather parchment with faded ink what was undoubtedly a copy itself the following line: People are swayed more by fear than by reverence. It led me to ask myself—what is fear? It takes many forms. It holds sway in all of us. Fear is pain arising from the anticipation of evil. That is my opinion.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
Trasen walked all night long, reaching the Winemiller vineyard before dawn. His eyes were puffy and dry and his left arm and wrist still throbbed from the violent way the stranger had subdued him. He had tracked Phae and her pursuer into the woods quite a distance before realizing it was utter foolishness to continue with that plan. The man had taken an arrow shaft in the chest and it had not even penetrated him. It would require cunning and speed to rescue Phae. Even better—a horse.
As he marched through the aisles of grapevines, he approached the barn from the rear and pushed open the door. He hesitated waking the family, but realized he should lest they worry about a missing stallion. Leaving his dusty pack on the dirt by the barn door, he crossed to the main door and tested it. The bolt was drawn.
Each moment of delay made his heart race with dread and worry. Phae was out in the wilderness alone, hunted by a servant of the Arch-Rike of Kenatos. He did not believe she could avoid capture permanently and so he assumed she was already apprehended and bound for the island city with a dangerous man. A spasm of pain went through his heart, wondering how she was being treated. He would have given his own life to separate her from that man. Clenching his jaw, he pounded his fist on the door and then sagged against it, resting his forehead on his arm and swallowing tears. Phae—where was she at that moment? Was she terrified? Was she injured? Was she even alive? The thought of losing her was pure torment.
Footsteps tread cautiously beyond the door. “Master Winemiller?” It was Tate’s voice.
“It’s Trasen,” he answered. “Open the door, Tate.”
The bolt jostled and he saw the youth’s flushed—and relieved—face. “You are back too soon.” He looked out at the darkened porch. “Where is Phae?”
Trasen couldn’t bring himself to reveal it yet. The loss was too painful. “Where is Master Winemiller?”
“He went to Stonehollow to get help from Uncle Carlsruhe. We’re expecting them both back today. I thought you were…”
“I know,” Trasen said, anxious to depart. He saw Devin poke his head around the door. The two of them were always together. Devin rubbed his eyes blearily. “Listen, both of you. I need to take one of the horses. Fast, but sturdy. I’ll take Paden.”
“Master took her already,” Devin said.
Trasen cursed under his breath. “Willow then. I assume he didn’t take the wagon and the team?” They nodded in agreement. “Good. Fetch me some bread and another waterskin. Some food for the road. There is one way out of this valley and one road to Kenatos. I’m going after Phae.”
Tate looks horrified. “You lost her!”
Trasen nearly boxed him. “I shot a man at twenty spans in the chest and it didn’t hurt him so much as a bee sting.” He grunted and shook his head. “I…I did what I could, but he was better than a soldier.”
“Is that a bruise on your cheek?” Devin asked.
“Fetch the food, Devin. I’ll saddle Willow. We don’t have time to stand here and talk. Phae is in danger. Tell Master Winemiller I’m going after her. Tell him…I won’t come back without her.”
Phae awoke just before dawn. Her muscles were cramped, and her ear throbbed with soreness. As she blinked, she tried to remember where she was and realized she had cried herself asleep on the grass. Her eyes were swollen, her throat parched. She sat up slowly, shivering uncontrollably at the memories of the night. The sky was turning violet in the horizon and the stars were beginning to vanish, one by one. Pale dawn was coming.
“Are you cold?”
His voice came from behind her and she flinched. She nodded meekly, but what made her shiver wasn’t the bite of the morning air. She was terrified and wary of anything that might upset the Kishion now.
He shifted in the grass, rising, and then settled his tattered cloak over her shoulders. She could see his arms through the rips in his sleeves, all knotted muscles and dark hair. The smell of his cloak was musty and it did not provide any comfort.
“Thank you,” Phae whispered hoarsely.
He came around and squatted in front of her, offering her leather pack that she had left behind in the abandoned cottage. She touched it, stroking the edge with her fingers, and another shiver ran through her.
“Let me see your ear,” he said.
She shook her head and eased away from him. “It doesn’t hurt much,” she lied.
“Let me see it,” he insisted. The light was slowly improving, but it was not bright enough for her to fully see his eyes. She would not have dared to try stealing his memories, though.
Gingerly, she combed her fingers through her knotted strands and brushed the hair back from her ear, exposing the wound to him. She looked at her left hand and saw dried blood on her fingers. He saw it as well, his expression hardening subtly.
The Kishion pulled out his leather flask and unstoppered it. He motioned the lip of it toward her hands and she cupped them. He poured water there and then took her wrists and began rubbing her palms together, letting the water spill through her fingers. He ripped a torn segment of his cloak from off her shoulders and dabbed her hands dry. Afterward, he examined her hands, appraising them at different angles, and then folded up the fabric. He poured more water onto it and moved closer to her, so close she could feel his breath. It was frightening having him so close. The scars on his face were becoming more pronounced as the sunlight began to swell across the horizon.