Etherwalker

by Cameron Dayton

  Nyraud leaned in extra close, and Sera could smell his sweat.

  “That is the funniest thing about you ‘regal’ angels, so arrogant and vain. You’re unfinished. You killed the Pensanden before they could finish you!”

  It’s not true.

  But even as she thought this, Sera could feel her pollices—the “grotesque limbs” at her back—trembling. The strain of her prone position was wearing on them; Alaphim slept standing. What was worse, the metal casing of her ulnar sheathe had broken the skin. She was bleeding. Despite what Nyraud thought, she felt pain in her wings.

  My unfinished wings.

  Sera wept as Nyraud cut at her feathers. She didn’t feel his shears—the feathers were made of a thin brass alloy, the yellow shine polished to match her eye-rings—but she felt the loss of her freedom. The loss of the sky.

  A shout went up from the one side of the camp—a rider had just appeared, his mur foaming from what must have been a hard ride from Babel. The man dismounted and ran to the king.

  “Sire, I have news from the Tower. We’ve found him!”

  Nyraud spun, dropping the shears.

  “What? Found him? Where?”

  The man leaned in to whisper to the king. Nyraud’s face was incredulous, his expression moving from surprise to a greedy joy as the man spoke.

  “In the tower? Are you sure? Ha! I was positive that he’d head east to the caves!”

  King Nyraud turned to face his huntsmen.

  “Men, I want to be packed and saddled in an hour. It turns out our prey couldn’t wait for the hunt. He has come to us!”

  There were confused expressions throughout the camp, and a few halfhearted cheers.

  “Oh, don’t worry, this wasn’t an entirely unsuccessful trip—we caught an angel! Get her caged and in the wagon quickly. I want to be in the city by tomorrow!”

  Sera lay still in a bed of her own feathers. They were cold against her skin. The sky had begun to grow dark overhead.

  Chapter 15

  “Surely the bitterness of death is past.”

  —1 Samuel 15:32 KJV

  Enoch burned. That was his first sensation, burning. His fingers felt like red-hot irons. He wondered if they’d burn through his sheets.

  Sheets?

  And then:

  Am I home? This was all a dream!

  “Master! Master, are you . . . ?”

  Sitting up, Enoch’s hopes were quickly shattered. He was in a bed, but not the humble straw palliasse he had slept on his entire life. No itching, no lumps.

  No Master Gershom. That’s right. I don’t need anyone.

  He blinked. Smooth white sheets stretched across his body, over the two bumps of his feet, and then beyond for what seemed like forever. A white canopy stretched over his head, supported at four corners by ornate pillars, carved from a rich red-brown wood that Enoch didn’t recognize. His hands were bandaged, and he could smell some sort of bitter ointment.

  Where am I? Why is my skin burning? And where is Rictus? Cal . . . ?

  Memory rushed back to Enoch in a sickening wave. Rictus being torn apart by trolls. Cal giving his life to save him. The cold. The lights going out, one by one.

  His hand moved quickly to his chest.

  It’s gone!

  The disc from the Unit, the one Master Gershom had risked his life to retrieve, was missing. Enoch’s neck felt naked without the cool weight that had rested there for so long. At least it felt like it had been a long time.

  He kicked the sheets clear and rolled to the side of the magnificent bed. It was surprisingly high up off of the floor, almost as tall as Enoch, and he stumbled when his feet hit the tiles. He had been dressed in a tabard of smooth green silk—at least Enoch thought he recognized the material. A trader had brought a small roll of silk to Rewn’s Fork years ago, and everybody in town had lined up to touch the shiny stuff. They’d touched it, sure, but nobody could afford it. The trader left sulking.

  The memory seemed so far away, Rewn’s Fork part of another world.

  “Your clothes are on the table next to the door, Milord. Your swords are being held by His Majesty. He wanted to speak with you when you awoke.”

  Enoch jumped, spinning around to face the voice. It belonged to an old woman who had been quietly sitting on a stool next to the door. Enoch hadn’t seen her in the flickering light from the brazier. She stepped forward and bowed.

  Dressed in a simple green frock, the woman had a voice that was hardly a whisper. She was stooped and small, her gray hair tightly wound into a bun. Enoch thought she looked kind. But her words were perplexing.

  Milord? His Majesty?

  “Thank you,” he said, then remembered his manners. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  The woman nodded, keeping her eyes on the floor. Enoch wondered how long she’d been sitting there.

  “The burning should ebb as the feeling comes back to your skin, Milord. The cold almost took your fingers. Almost took your ears. Milord is lucky to have been found when he was.”

  “Do you know how I got here? I . . . was with some friends, and—”

  “Friends that let you wander half-naked in such cold, Milord?”

  Enoch held back an angry response. His heart still ached when he thought of Cal, his sacrifice. Rictus . . . and he wasn’t sure if he heard scorn in the woman’s voice or gentle reproof. She had obviously learned how to speak without the implications of tone and mood, and Enoch wondered why somebody would want to learn that.

  Should I tell her that my friends didn’t have enough skin to know how cold it was?

  “His majesty will be wanting to know you’ve awakened, Milord.”

  She shuffled to the door and raised a brown, wrinkled fist. Then . . . she stopped. Her eyes flickered up to meet his just before knocking. Enoch was confused by the look.

  Was that fear?

  Three quick knocks, and the door swung open. Two men were standing on each side of the door. Craning his neck, Enoch thought he spied a drawn sword in one of their hands.

  The woman moved through the doorway, carefully avoiding the two guards, and disappeared into the hallway. The door swung closed.

  A sword! I’ve got to get out of here!

  Enoch was tired of this feeling, this feeling of panic and danger and his heart beating in his throat. The loss of those he loved. It was a very real pain. And while pensa spada could suspend the sensation for a little while, it certainly didn’t make it go away.

  Does it ever go away? I hurt . . . and I’m just tired. So tired.

  He felt a sob building up in his chest, a thick ball of fear and sorrow and futility rolling up to burst out of control.

  No.

  Enoch pushed the feeling away. It wasn’t quite like pausing or pensa spada, but there was something similar—he was controlling his mind, controlling his feelings. It had happened so quickly, he had surprised himself.

  I don’t need anybody.

  Pushing the hurt away didn’t necessarily feel good. But he was back in control. Master Gershom would have been proud, would have recognized the steely expression of a Nahuati blademaster, the Ferrocara. Enoch wondered if the Pensanden of the Tzolkin Core had done something similar when calling the First Hunt together—pushing away their feelings to be able to do something so monstrous.

  No, no time to dwell on that. I have to find my way out of here.

  The room was large, probably larger than his cottage back at Rewn’s Fork, with an ornate copper brazier mounted on one wall. The red coals filled the room with a warm, comfortable glow. In front of the brazier was a large green cushion with an odd furry trim at the center.

  The green trim opened shiny eyes and yawned.

  “Mesha!”

  At the sound of his voice, Mesha’s fur rippled from green to black and then to a warm red that matched the light on the floor. Enoch laughed—it was just like Rictus had guessed. She was more than a simple shadowcat!

  Enoch limped over to the cushion, his sore muscles pro
testing the quick movement. Mesha watched him approach, as though she expected him to come to her rather than the other way around. With a grunt, Enoch dropped onto the cushion next to the shadowcat and pulled her close. She looked slightly bothered that he had ruined her nap, and her fur rippled green again. She wanted the cushion back.

  “Where are we, girl? How did we get here?”

  Of course, no answer came. Mesha rubbed her head against Enoch’s chest and then climbed up onto his shoulders, changing color to the default brown she usually wore. He reached up and patted her with a bandaged hand.

  “Well, I’m glad you stayed with me. Let’s find a way out of here.”

  Enoch continued searching the room. On another wall, he found an enormous tapestry depicting a hunting scene. There were no windows in the room, and the ceiling arched up at an odd angle. Enoch thought he saw the red light reflecting on the edge of something up in the darkness of the arch.

  Panels? Am I still in the tunnels underneath Babel?

  Enoch closed his eyes and paused. For some reason this seemed easier with Mesha around his neck. There weren’t any signs of . . . wait! There was a power line—an old one, thin and fading—tracing along the contour of the door. There wasn’t much energy in the line, just enough to make it visible to Enoch.

  To a Pensanden.

  He used his new vision to follow the line, moving along its length until it branched off into another. And then another. Little by little, Enoch began to feel an outline of the space around him. But it wasn’t enough—just old wiring with a dwindling connection to a distant source. No motors like the windmill, no energized parts like the Silverwitch, nothing that Enoch could effect. But there was something, something close by, that could possibly be useful if he could just get some power to it. It was a motor—a small one, but it presented a possibility. Enoch could feel the latent energy of the thing, the tense motes shivering to be set in motion.

  Right . . . there.

  He walked over to a corner of the tapestry and pulled it away from the wall. There was a panel just over Enoch’s head. The motor was behind it.

  If I can just push the panel aside, maybe I can get my hands on some of the wiring in the surrounding walls. I should be able to pull enough power into the motor to get it started.

  He wasn’t sure that was true, but it felt right. Enoch didn’t really have the words for what he saw and felt in these machines, but his instinct tended to be correct. This was how he had turned on the lights in the tunnel.

  Enoch reached up and pushed against the panel. It was stuck tight. He looked around the room for something to stand on.

  If I can get high enough, I bet I can pry it open with . . .

  Mesha hissed and jumped down. Somebody was at the door, talking to the guards. Enoch threw the tapestry back against the wall and hurried back to the giant bed. He leapt in and was just pulling the covers up when the door opened.

  The man who came through was a king. Enoch wasn’t sure how he knew, but the man fit every idea he had ever had about what a king should be. He was tall, broad shouldered, and he walked into the room with a stately elegance. He wore a fine cloak of fur, and his green doublet was decorated with an arrow piercing the sun—sewn in golden thread. The man’s dark eyes were stern, but upon seeing Enoch’s face, they lifted. He smiled.

  He is happy to see me?

  “Good morning, young man. I trust you are feeling better?”

  Enoch didn’t know how to respond to this warmth from a complete stranger, even if he was a king. The man smiled at his hesitancy.

  “Some of my men found you in the tunnels underneath this very spot. You were freezing to death . . . you almost died, actually. I’ve had Endra—I think you met her when you woke up—caring for you since my men brought you back here. She is quite skilled with balms and potions.” Here he pointed to the bandages on Enoch’s arms. The boy was still unsure of what to say.

  Who is this man?

  “You seem frightened. I assure you, young man, this is the safest room in Babel. The trolls wouldn’t dare climb into my tower—those few that you’ve left alive, that is.”

  Enoch was stunned.

  Babel? I’m in the tower—in the Ark! So he must be . . . ?

  The tall man had come around to the side of the bed, and he put a hand up on the corner post.

  “I’ve hunted the beasts before. You’ve impressed the Hunter King, boy. My men say that when they found you, you were surrounded by trolls. Dead ones. Lieutenant Stykes says he counted at least eight in various states of decapitation strewn across the bridge. He says there were more on the cave floor beneath.”

  The Hunter King!

  King Nyraud, Lord of the Reach, turned and pulled a shortsword from behind his back. Enoch flinched, pushing back into his pillow.

  “They also say that they found this underneath you, and another at your waist.”

  Now Enoch recognized the sword. It was his master’s derech. The king put it on the bed and pushed it towards him.

  “Go on, take it. Far be it for me to keep a blademaster from his blade.”

  Enoch reached over and grabbed the hilt. He looked up at the king and froze. Nyraud laughed.

  “I don’t blame you for being cautious, boy. Anyone who could slay a dozen trolls and still clean his blades before passing out has got to have some enemies!”

  They didn’t find Rictus?

  Enoch caught his breath, slowly pulling the derech to his side.

  Of course they didn’t. All they saw was a mangled pile of old bones, some tatters of cloth—all worn and chewed on. His sword is probably still buried to the cross-guard in troll guts.

  King Nyraud inclined his head a notch. He seemed to be waiting for something. Enoch blushed.

  “My name is Enoch, m . . . Milord. I was traveling through the . . . um, traveling underneath your tower, Milord.”

  Don’t tell him too much—where was that place Rictus said we should go? Not north.

  “I was heading east to the hills. I’ve got some family there.”

  Nyraud was smirking and looked amused.

  “Yes, I thought you’d be moving towards Akkadia. I suppose I just got there ahead of you.”

  Nyraud laughed at Enoch’s confusion, but not unkindly. The king seemed to be a generally pleasant person, nothing like the tales of the feral Hunter King Enoch had heard from Old Noach Kohn.

  “You weren’t traveling alone, were you, Enoch?”

  The king asked as though he knew the answer. Enoch didn’t want to mention his friends. He felt his façade cracking, struggled to retain the Ferrocara.

  “Don’t worry about covering for your little friend. If Stykes hadn’t been armed with a tin of smallfish, he’d have lost an arm trying to carry you out of there.”

  Huh?

  The king nodded over at the cushion, where Mesha was settling herself. Enoch gave a silent sigh of relief.

  “Luckily, she seemed to understand that we were saving your life and was content to follow. Stykes says you owe him some fish.”

  Enoch couldn’t help it—his relief combined with Nyraud’s generous demeanor broke through the Ferrocara. He laughed. The king laughed with him.

  “Well now you sound like the boy I imagined was hiding under all the fierce Nahuati training.”

  The king stepped away from the bed and went over to the cushion. He crouched down to stroke Mesha’s fur, which rippled from cushion-green to ember-red as she exulted in the attention.

  Well, if Mesha likes him, he can’t be that bad.

  “So I took great care to put you in one of the more, ah, primitive rooms in my tower. One without any mechanical workings. I wanted to make sure you weren’t disturbed—Endra says that a deep sleep heals better than any potion.”

  Enoch wondered where he was going with this.

  Mechanical workings? He doesn’t know about my . . .

  Looking down, Enoch saw that the scars on his wrists were covered by the bandages. His face and f
orehead were bandaged as well.

  I guess it all comes down to whether Endra would recognize my marks. And if she would tell.

  The king stood up and came back over to the bed. He leaned closer, gently put his hand on Enoch’s head. Just like Master Gershom used to do.

  “I don’t know why you were in my tunnels, Enoch. I don’t know how you got there, and I don’t where you were headed. But please—accept my offer of a safe place to stay until you need to leave.”

  A safe place.

  Enoch was overwhelmed. This kind of treatment from a king? There had to be something behind it.

  “Why?” he stammered. His voice broke, and he was ashamed of revealing himself so much. “Why are you helping me?”

  King Nyraud smiled, gently tousled Enoch’s hair.

  “I had a son once, Enoch. You remind me of him. Sure, he wasn’t a swordsman like you. Or a Pensanden—” he glanced at Enoch’s bandages. “—but he was a smart boy. A clever boy. You would have liked him.”

  The king turned, almost as if to hide his face, and slowly walked from the room. At the door, he stopped, just as the old woman Endra had done. But the look he gave to Enoch was tender. Hopeful.

  “I put you in this primitive room so that your etherwalker mind could rest, could be still while you recovered. Yet you were more perceptive than I gave you credit for. I can see where you pulled the tapestry away from the wall—it’s got the smell of your balm on it. You found the old ventilation fan in there, didn’t you?”

  Enoch’s open mouth was answer enough.

  How did he smell the balm from across the room?

  Again, Nyraud laughed.

  “Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m just impressed—that fan hasn’t worked since I was a child. I didn’t think the Pensanden could read dead machines.

  “Your other sword—your iskeyar—is down in my sparring room waiting for you. I thought we might practice some swordplay when you are feeling better. Sleep well, Enoch.”