by M. C. Elam
“Bugs, weeuns none can see.” He watched the boy set his lips tight on the end and blow. A peculiar sense that there was more to the boy than just a lad not knowing his place, wafted through his head like a zephyr. “Tales, a,” he tugged his beard in an absentminded kind of way. “Can’t speak on that boy.”
Jem reared up on one elbow. “Tales about our times, told like remembrances when we be gone to the Mother?”
“Like a bard what sings fanciful tunes? Why you thinking on such as that? Boy not half grown. Years ahead before you be thinking on going to the Mother.”
“Years? Mayhap Roland. Mayhap got tomorrow.”
The aging dwarf patted his arm. “Far past tomorrow, I’d warrant. Best get to sleep. Moon’s low in the sky. Means the sun got it on the run.”
“If I see my mama again, I be asking can I learn to write words like Melendarius. Write down how it be with us. How it be in our time. The truth of it.”
Roland raised an eyebrow and gave the boy another pat. “That be a fine sort of idea Jem. I spect it be an idea worth something.”
Jem lay quiet and after a bit Roland thought he had found his dreams. His lids grew heavy, drawing him into the quiet night. Almost asleep, he heard the boy's restless movement and opened them to see Jem peering down at him. “Ach, Jem, what’s this?”
“How can King Hawk and the rest laugh together the way they be doing tonight when Lady Evan…when Lady Evan be,” his voice caught in his throat.
“I spect it be their way a dealing.”
“Dealing?”
“Aye, lad. Be an iffy thing, the plan they made. If they fail, Lady Evan be lost. Reckon King Hawk be pushing that notion as far away from his thinking as he can. So making jokes and laughing round-a-bouts a fire, with men he honors, be his way a keeping his head. Same goes for the rest, specially Marcus. Lady Evan be his wee girl, same as you be his boy.”
“His wee girl?”
“Aye, carried her off this same mountain when she be no more than a morsel. Break him nigh in half, do she perish.”
Silent for a while, Jem considered all that Roland told him before the next question dug at him. “Roland, how is it you be knowing such things as that, ‘bout when Lady Evan be a wee lass and all?” In the low light from the heavens he thought he saw the dwarf smile.
“Now that be simple as a wedge of your mam’s huckleberry pie. I be partial to that pie, don’t you know? Truth of it is, Jem, I come from the caves of Shadall. Down in the caves a man learns the lore of the times.”
“If you be knowing what come before, then mayhap you know what be coming to us.”
Drat, if that boy didn’t reason it all out before he had a chance to figure a way to answer him. “Future be hope to those what acts on the past, Jem. Now, get on into sleep afore your future be the waling I levy on that backside a yours for stealing my rest.”
***
Jem awoke to a sound that made him think he had passed the night in a carpentry shop. He opened his eyes. The right still itched a bit, so like as not, Roland would dose him again, but before that happened, he wanted a chance to see what the men were building. Prison wagon, he remembered and rolled onto his belly. Marcus stood between him and the work, effectively blocking his view.
The only prison wagon Jem knew about was one he saw outside the knight's barracks in Falmora some four seasons past. He only caught a quick look before his mama whisked him away. From what he could recollect, it had a long bench that stretched from one end to the other. The single man who sat midway, with his wrists bound and what had looked to Jem like stocks around his ankles caught him watching and scowled.
Kicking free of the blanket, he rose and inched around Marcus to a spot where the view was better. The men had turned a flatbed wagon, now empty of its previous cargo, into a facsimile of what Jem had observed so long ago, only now he noted that this one did have ankle stocks on either side of the bench, enough to accommodate a total of eight men four to a side. Marcus ordered the stocks fitted around their ankles.
“See it don't eat the skin off, fellows,” Marcus called. He turned, sensing Jem. “Well, lad come to have a look? Jump you in. See her close up.”
Jem shook his head and backed away.
“Aye, a wise lad. Steer clear of stocks and such. Off with you, then. Gather your gear, and stick close to Roland. We be crossing the bog come midday. Dodgy place, even for those what knows the way.”
***
Edward Barclay paced the hallway outside the same chamber where he last saw Peter Brenan. Edward had to credit Jem with a job well done. By the time the prison wagon rumbled across country to the Osway river, even people along the narrow horse trail turned out to watch Captain Barclay and his Owlmen escort the captives. Jem he traveled on foot, but the boy ran like a deer. He had covered the same ground a full day ahead of them. As soon as they entered the slave pens Hawk elbowed Marcus. Edward noted the direction of their gaze and saw the boy perched on a fence beside Billy Runderly. Relief at finding him safe had rushed through him.
The whole plan progressed has they hoped. Now he had to deliver on his end. He eyed the Owlman that guarded the door. Just one he thought. He had stood outside this same chamber waiting to report to Brenan two years ago. On that day, a guard stood on each side of the door. Couldn’t be helped. The campaign stretched them thin. He supposed replacing two of the palace guards on an interior door with a single man was prudent. The man's cheek wore a red mark and his eye looked a bit puffed−evidence that Brenan disapproved the change.
“Good day, I trust all be well with you.” Klea nodded but didn't reply. Well coached, Edward thought and wondered who taught him. Devon Runderly knew the protocol. Most of the men they chose to represent the Brendemore guard came from Falmora. They were the most schooled and the country lilt less thick in their speech. King Hawk's father would have had a hand in that, requiring them to learn letters. Odd though, he knew the old king's most favored knight was Marcus Cailin. Either the man refused to give up that musical cadence when speaking, or he was too old to change by the time he entered the ranks. Perhaps it was a little of both. Edward's own speech bore heavier traces of the lilting rhythms when he was with Brinny. He smiled now, thinking about her. An hour together, a single precious hour, was all the time he could spare from duty. Soon though, he told himself, they would have all the time in the world.
When Annabelle Runderly learned he had wed Brinny, rescued her, she took him straight away to the little cottage at the edge of the commons. Part or it had burned, and the roof was gone, but the walls still stood.
“Here be the place she lay her head at night,” Annabelle had told him and then commanded, “When you be seeing her next, tell her Annabelle be here, this place too. Some thought to be taking it to ground, seeing how it be burnt up. Saw her in my scrying bowl. Plain as day I did, coming across the Arch, home light shining in her eyes. Burnt or no, she'll be wanting to set feet to home ground.”
He'd take her home. First though, they had to see to Peter Brenan.
When the door opened, Edward expected to find Preston Fugate in attendance. Instead, Brenan stood there, half-dressed and stinking of rose water that did little to conceal the stink of whore's disease that emanated from an array of weeping pustules that covered his face.
“Well, Barclay, rumor of your success precedes you. For your sake, I hope those rumors bear truth.” He eyed Edward, shook a finger in his face. “Take a knee before your king, imbecile.”
Edward's fingers curled into a fist. He could take the scrawny excuse for a man right now; strangle him with his bare hands. He drew a deep breath, and did as Brenan directed.
“Report.”
“Sire, Ascalla has fallen, your banner flies above Falmora. King Hawk, King Merrill, and the High Warrior of Shadall...”
“Don't tell me they escaped,” Brenan spat. “I'll have your head.”
“Nay, Majesty. Took them and three others, straight to the pens.”
“Three other
s? What three?”
“One be a knight. Big man, stands right hand to King Hawk.”
“Names, Barclay, give me names.”
“Heard King Hawk call him Marcus. There be a wee man caught up with them. Dwarf be my guess. Tried to talk his way out of capture, but I be on to him, seeing as how he trailed after the bunch of them like a lap dog. He be called Roland. No account though. Sent him to sell off in the pens come next auction. Third be of no account, but I took him for being in their company. Fat old priest name of Wryth.”
“A no account priest?” Brenan began to laugh. “No account, oh that is rich. Barclay. You lay long sought gifts at the feet of your king.”
Edward chanced a glance at Brenan. “Gifts, Majesty?”
“Aye, Barclay. Now Stand and give ear.” He waited until Edward stood at full attention before him. “Three days hence, I want an assemblage of my finest guard in Tower Circle. You will lead a procession through the streets that brings those men from the pens to the block. Be wary of them, Barclay.”
“Aye, Majesty.”
“One other, the people shall witness one other executed, a deceitful wench, called Ceri. She languishes in the tower.”
“In the tower, Majesty?”
“Aye, treasonous harlot. I should let her rot there instead of relieving her of her head and sending her to the grave. Instruct a guard to drag her from the cell and command her to crawl the distance to the block.”
“A woman, Majesty? But your citizenry…”
“What, Barclay? What will my citizenry do?” He doubled a fist and pushed it into Barclay's mid section. “Would you fault the actions of your King?”
“Nay, Majesty. I be your servant, true and faithful.”
A satisfied grunt dispelled any fear Edward held that Brenan suspected deception. He moved across the room to a writing desk, selected a quill, and dipped the nib into an inkpot. Minutes later, he blew drying powder across a sheet of parchment and folded it into three sections. He held a taper to wax and dripped a substantial puddle across the seam before pressing his seal into it.
"Take this to the head of my council. It instructs them to see that the orders I gave you are followed." He thrust the document into Edward's hand.
“Done?” Klea asked when the ornate door thudded shut on Brenan's chamber.
“Aye, trap be baited and set.”
36 - Brendemore Tower
With the exception of the main thoroughfare, polished to impress foreign travelers, Brendemore was a dismal place. Fingers of smoke from chimney fires in the slave pens crept skyward and, on still days, shrouded the city in gloom. Today was such a day. In the center of the city, Brendemore Tower stretched skyward. By early evening, its shadow extended east across the cobblestone courtyard. Licking the executioner's dais, it climbed the scaffold steps and crept over the headsman's block. A ghostly thing, it reappeared on the far side, slithered toward the outer ring and vanished among the narrow streets.
Confined in the uppermost chamber of the tower, for nearly a year, Evan had noted the days by scratching marks into one of the wall's limestone blocks. She was not the only one to adopt that somber occupation, but until today, when she found the intricate carving of a boy, she had never considered the possibility that these walls ever imprisoned a child. Even though the etching covered most of a block, she didn't see it at first. No surprise there since, over time, soot from the smoke laden sky had darkened every surface. The heaviest buildup coated the stonework closest to the floor, and in particular, the block where the carving of the boy lived.
Evan thought she knew every inch of the tower cell. Hadn't she walked it in every direction until exhaustion forced her to rest? The only thing she didn't do, despite finding signs of others who came before her, was physically examine every stone block. Thus, it wasn't until Benny cornered a cockroach intent upon making a meal of it, that she saw the boy.
“Bug bug bug,” his harsh call had awakened her from a late afternoon doze. “No, no, no. Bad bug.”
With a mad flutter of wings, Benny launched his body into the wall. Graceful only in flight, he tumbled to the floor. “Gronka, bug. Bad bad bad. dead Benny.”
From what she could recall of past events concerning Benny, dead meant help. “All right, Benny, where is your bad bug?”
He rolled onto boney little legs that she knew were quite strong and stalked toward the dark corner where the hapless bug chose to hide. The spot was only a couple of feet from where she sat, so she crawled toward him instead of standing.
“Bad bug,” he squawked and fluttered his wings, hopping a few feet into the air.
“Here, now, let's not try that again. Didn't work, did it?”
He cocked his head sideways, eyeing her. “Benny bug. No dead bug.”
“I know it belongs to you. I'm not going to help it. Dead Benny.”
“Ceri good bird. Gronka.” His attention once more riveted upon a spot on the wall.
“Whether or not I'm a good bird remains to be seen. I don't see a bug, Benny.”
Agitated, he hopped round about squawking. “Bug, bug, bug. Dead Benny.”
Evan peered into the corner and spied movement. She made a grab for the roach. With it wiggling against her palm, she rolled from her knees and sat cross-legged on the floor. “I have it, Benny, bug, bug ,bug.”
He hopped onto her wrist and poked his beak into the circular opening between the index finger and thumb of her closed hand. The cockroach's frantic movement told Evan, Benjamin Bird had secured his meal, and she opened her hand. A second later, while she still sat in the same spot, the setting sun reached a point in the western sky that sent a single beam of light into the corner where Benny's bug had tried to hide. There, carved into the stone some two feet above the cobblestone floor, Evan saw the little boy.
She brushed her hand over the rough stone attempting to wipe away the sooty grime that concealed most of the etching. Her hand came away coated with soot, but the effort brought little improvement. Useless, she thought and sat back on her heels, looking around the room. Her eyes fell on the bucket of drinking water. She stood and retrieved it from the place near the straw mattress meant to function as a bed. The tattered blanket that was here when she arrived lay discarded against a far wall where she had tossed it when the caretaker brought a better one. Though she reminded him to take it away every day for months because it held the smell of so many lost souls, it was still here. She set the bucket near the corner and went back for the blanket. Squatting near the corner, she ripped a section from the blanket and dipped it into the bucket. It came out sopping. With sunlight fast receding, she hurried. Between scrubbing away the soot and rinsing the filth from the rag, nothing much remained of the blanket when she stopped. Even in the fading light, the boy was visible, and centered in the space just below it, was a single letter−B.
Who were you? Evan wondered. She stroked the letter; let her fingers explore the curves. If the boy had a connection to Brenan, she didn't feel it. Yet, something was familiar. She closed her eyes thinking, not so much about the letter but the etching. The artist, for the image surely was art, had talent. She knew a bit about art from Hawk's tutors. The intricacy of working stone took fine tools and patience. Here, limited to broken pieces of stone, carving a figure like the boy bordered on impossible. Maybe, she thought, maybe the boy didn't do it. The palm of her hand flattened against the stone and she knew that assumption was wrong. The boy was the only one in the cell when the stone image took form. He did carve it. Poor little fellow. What happened to you.?
A nameless presence gripped her. The pull, irresistible, she drifted toward the source, its music calling her to follow. Her body felt as though she existed without worldly substance. She glimpsed the boy. Two guards dragged him from the cell, down the winding steps, through the main door and into the courtyard. In his arms, she saw a small dog, saw it lick his cheek.
That dog, she thought. I’ve seen that dog.
A somber crowd surrounded the exec
utioner’s block. The boy disappeared in a sea of milling bodies. She heard cries of protest from those gathered and wondered why they didn't act? What crime did Brenan charge him with, a mere boy?
Her spirit rose above the crowd toward a point overhead. The boy, visible to her once more, lay on his side. The little dog sat upon its haunches beside him. It was a spotted dog of no particular breed, mostly white with a brown mask that covered both eyes and ranged over the top of its head. He was your boy wasn't he little fellow. Her gaze shifted to the executioner. The man, his head cast down, stood beside the boy's body. No gore dripped from his axe. He had not struck a single blow. The sight of you frightened him to death, Evan thought.
Please sweet Mother, what crime is mine that you force this vision upon me. It's over, finished, not a part of the here and now, and even if it were, I am powerless to stop what has already come to pass.
Still the scene played in her head.
A tall man, his unruly hair the color of straw, pushed through the crowd. He wore a homespun shirt, laced in front with a rawhide thong and tucked into sand colored breeches. He was young, not much past seventeen or eighteen. The people must have known him because they parted, opening a path that led to the dais where the punisher stood. When he started up the steps toward the boy, her breath caught in her throat. Witches' spit, it's Devon Runderly; the boy ̶ relief sweet relief ̶ the boy had to be Billy, and Billy, she knew, was very much alive. Of course, now it all made sense. That little dog, was the same one that trailed after Billy when he made his patrol inside the slave pens.
Devon lifted Billy in his arms and turned away from the block. Fearless he marched through the crowd, past the guards toward the outer edge of the square. The little dog followed close at his heels. Just before they disappeared into one of the narrow streets, he turned, eyes glazed, staring−at what−upon what? The image lasted mere seconds, and then he was gone.
By the gods, I'm as thick as an addle-pated hedge-pig. He's was looking into the future, just the way his mother does, and he saw me. Devon Runderly has the gift of future sight, the same as Annabelle.