The Hekamon

by Leo T Aire

  103

  Bree couldn't be sure whether it was a lock of hair, or a tassel of fine, golden silk. Studying it more closely, she noticed how a few of the threads had been wrapped around the main strands, giving the appearance of a tiny sheaf of wheat. Is that what it was meant to be? Whatever it was, Bree thought that it must be important to have been placed inside, so returned the tiny golden sheaf to the locket and closed it again.

  Seated on a velvet stool and looking into the mirror that rested on her dresser, Bree raised the necklace to see how it would look on her. She thought it suited her. Her white silk night dress and flame red hair needed something in between and the silver locket and chain were perfect.

  If only the chain wasn't broken, then she could wear it properly, as it was, she would have to hold it like this.

  How could she ever hope to repair it without her father becoming aware she had it in her possession? She could always try to repair it herself, but it would be a pity if she had to. Such a beautiful piece of jewelry needed the attention of a skilled craftsman. Where could she find one of those?

  The irony wasn't lost on Bree, that some of Demedelei's finest metal smiths were within a stones throw of where she lived, and yet she couldn't make use of their talents.

  While studying the chain more closely, and marveling at its fine teardrop links, Bree decided not to do anything with it just yet. She didn't want to risk damaging the necklace further by trying to repair it herself, and anyway, it wasn't as though she be able to wear it while walking around the fort, so it would be sensible for her to bide her time.

  It would become a project for her. Finding a skilled jeweler, or chain maker, who could make the necklace compete again.

  It was a challenge she would set herself. It would mean leaving the protection of the fort, and going to the dirty and noisy streets of Serfacre. An idea that excited and repulsed her in equal measure. But if the necklace was ever going to be repaired, there seemed no alternative. The chances of finesmith coming to her seemed unlikely.

  As she admired her reflection in the mirror, there came the sound of a door opening. Bree could identify every door in the keep from the sound it made when opening. The only exception was when the oiling of the hinges and greasing of the locks would her throw her senses awry, for a few weeks, anyway. The door that had just opened was one she was very familiar with, more so than any other, since it was the door to her apartments.

  When the creaking sound the door made was short and sharp, it heralded the swift, near instant arrival of her father. A slower, more respectful entrance meant that, as on this occasion, it was Kate. Neither of them knocked, not on that door, anyway.

  "Bree?" The voice called from the other room.

  "Yes?" She replied, placing the necklace in the drawer of her dresser, closing it and picking up a hairbrush.

  She listened to the sound of footsteps across the tiled floor of her sitting room, and then came a knock on her bedroom door.

  "Come in," she said, and began brushing her hair.

  Kate eased the door open and peered around it, "Your father asked my to look in on you," she said, standing in the doorway.

  "That was thoughtful of him."

  "And to to ensure your apartments are secured," her personal guard added, entering and closing the door behind her. This was Kate's euphemistic way of telling her she would be locked in.

  "I'm not going anywhere, you know," she sighed.

  "There might be a good reason this time. There have been a series of assaults today, one of them near the fort and the victim was someone you're familiar with."

  "Who?" She asked, ceasing her brushing and turning to her personal guard.

  "Enyon Croneygee, one of the serfacre armorers."

  She did know him, or at least, she had seen him on numerous occasions over the years. He and her father could often be found deep in conversation about armament production, or supplies, or some such matter.

  "Is he badly hurt?"

  "Yes, it's quite seriously from what I've been told, but Pryor Jervay is aiding his recovery."

  "Do you know who was responsible?"

  "We have an idea yes, and he may be in the custody of ferguths. So I think that danger has passed," Kate said, staring to move away from the door, walking by her and across the room.

  "Then why the extra vigilance?" she asked, brushing again.

  "There are a few things we are still looking into. The man in question is a thief and may have stolen some items of value, including from the Fennreans, it might be why they apprehended him. They might be very keen for its return."

  This caused her to pause the hairbrush mid-stroke, glancing at Kate's reflection it the mirror. Her guard was not watching her back, but rather surveying her room. Looking for something?

  "What is it they want returned?" She asked nonchalantly, brushing again, with her focus on Kate. This time the guard returned her look, via the mirror, "It's nothing for you to worry about, we're just taking the necessary precautions," Kate said soothingly, walking back to the door.

  "You'd better lock up then, just to be on the safe side," she replied, unable to resist a smile. For the first time in a long time, she might actually want the door locked, but she dropped the smile quickly.

  The fact that the necklace was missing would not go unnoticed for very long and she was one of the few people with an opportunity to take it. Fennreans? She wasn't worried about them, they wouldn't get close to the fort. Her father though, he was a different matter.

  "I'm pleased that you understand our need to be vigilant. Goodnight, Bree," her guard said, leaving and closing the bedroom door behind her.

  "Goodnight, Kate." She replied, listening to the sound of the woman's footsteps, followed by the door to her apartments being opened, closed and then locked.

  She got up and quietly opened her bedroom door, just to be certain the guard really had left. It would be unlike Kate to use subterfuge, but Bree's own behavior had been out of character and it had made her suspicious.

  Certain her apartment was empty, she returned to her dresser, opened the drawer and took out her necklace once more. She didn't normally creep around and steal things. But did it count as stealing?

  Taking the lamp, she walked over to her bed and placed it on the bedside table. She slid between the crisp white sheets, shivering involuntary at their initial coldness, before pulling the blankets tightly around her and resting her head on the pillow. She rested the necklace on the pillow too, looking at it once again as it shimmered in the candlelight.

  So it was Fennrean and it was stolen, she had guessed as much, on both counts. Perhaps this was why it had agitated her father so much. No, she had heard him talk of a curse, he knew it was more than that, and he was right.

  In the short time she had possessed the necklace she had already gleaned a great deal from it. Not least that it had been stolen, but it had also been set free.

  It seemed to give her an insight into the minds of others, and not just other people, especially not people. Birds had seemed particularly intriguing, their minds seemed especially receptive.

  How could it be possible? She was tempted to think that she had just imagined it. Yet she'd learnt things from them she could not possibly have discovered any other way. Seen places she had not visited and from a perspective beyond her reach.

  There seemed to be one mind that was particularly strong.

  It was not that of a bird or a person, at least, not a living person, not as far as she could tell anyway. The voice was calling to her and attempting to make itself heard. The sentiment was clear, even if the words themselves were not, and the message it conveyed was hard to make sense of, 'Bring him the key.'

  Who? And which key? She didn't own any keys. It seemed as though she was expected to understand.

  Bree sat up and blew out the lamp, before laying back and clearing her mind.

  When she felt completely relaxed, she felt in the darkness for the necklace and held it. She c
ould sense her dreams would be vivid and lucid, and even before she had fallen asleep, the images started to come to her.

  Then, as she drifted to the brink of sleep, she floated to a state of heightened consciousness and, at the very moment her imagination was at its most receptive, something reached in.

  Bree had often that felt her dreams were important. That they conveyed messages that had meaning and carried insights. Her unconscious mind somehow unlocking a deeper knowledge, that her busy and easily distracted waking mind could not. If that was so, then this one would be no exception.

  104

  Immediately her senses were filled. The stars above, brighter than she'd ever seen them, the crescent moon as bright as if it was an eclipsed sun. The sound and feel of rushing air, the view across the treetops, a sensation of flying that was palpable and exhilarating.

  It wasn't just a sensation of flying, she was flying.

  Just above the trees, then into a glade, low past some stones and into the forest beyond. Close to the ground and through the trees, weaving among them, instinctively turning this way and that. Would she still avoid them if she didn't? She couldn't be sure, and didn't want to find out.

  It was then she climbed sharply. It had not been her doing. She was not in control but was a passenger. The steep climb brought a rapid deceleration and a branch changed from a fast approaching hazard, to a near stationary place to rest in the blink of an eye.

  The rushing sound of air was replaced by something else, not quite silence but something just a whisper from it. It was the sound of the forest at night, it was alive and it was awake.

  There came another sound, something that didn't belong. Quietly at first then growing louder, a rustling, thumping sound. It echoed around the hills and reverberated off the trees. It was accompanied by a sound, not unlike that of a sobbing girl. While along with it, and from high above the branches, the fluttering of bats.

  Then, the sound of an owl hooting. An owl that sounded very close for good reason.

  There was never a moment of realization, she had known all along, but the sound of its voice was a welcoming confirmation. This mind she was more comfortable with. The raven had been solely interested in dead things and shiny things. While the owl was curious about so much more, although the dead mouse in its talons was on its mind, too. Just not at the forefront, not yet.

  The owl turned its head, and the noises became instantly louder. She would have sworn it was a stampede, if the equally effective eyesight was not telling her it was just two people.

  She could hear their heartbeats, loud, pounding. While their heavy footsteps were, by comparison, a cacophonous wall of noise, like thunder rolling overhead, or a hailstorm of giant boulders.

  The pair ran directly beneath her, with the fiery glow from a burning torch they carried, casting them in a brilliant light. To these eyes, the torch burnt as brightly as the sun. Eyes that could see the light of the flame and, in some curiously ethereal way, the heat of it too.

  To the running shapes below, she knew the forest would seem dark and forbidding with their inferior senses.

  The one behind, without the torch, stumbling along in heavy boots, her long hair flowing behind, breathing heavily from the exertion of running. Her quiet cries, sounding like earth rending shrieks to the observers keen ears. What were they running from, or to? She didn't know, but she had seen her first Fennreans. And since they were from the marshes, maybe that's where they were heading.

  The man, the torch bearer, the one leading the way into the darkness. He was a Fennrean at least. More than that, he was a ferguth. She had heard of their tattoos, and the man's face was half covered by symbols and motifs.

  Was the necklace his? No, definitely not. Was it the girl's?

  The two of them continued on and the owl's gaze followed them for a while, before it seemed to turn its attention elsewhere.

  The moment it looked away, the sound of the noisy intruders diminished and the ambiance of the forest returned.

  The glades were alive.

  More than that, it was a single living entity. With each of its souls part of something greater. Fluttering sounds, rustling, scurrying and heartbeats everywhere, most were quiet and barely audible, but they were all around and the owl could hear them.

  That's what had given the mouse away. It had been betrayed by its heart.

  At that moment, the owl seemed to focus on something up on the hillside, an outcrop of rock, just visible through the branches of the trees. It looked like some caves. Where did they go? Did they lead into the mountains? Into the very heart of the Hekamon?

  Whatever their significance, the Owl seemed to remain transfixed on that point for sometime. Watching, but seeing nothing. Listening, and hearing…what could the owl hear?

  Brigantia listened as well, and thought she could hear something, faint but recognizable. It sounded as though the mountain itself was alive. Or was she imagining it. Was it just the sound of her own breathing and heartbeat, slow and rhythmic in her dreamlike state.

  It was then she realized something about owls that she had never guessed at before. Their talons grip tightly when relaxed. It takes an effort to open them, as the owl did now, to pass the mouse from claw to mouth. Bringing nourishment. One life sacrificed to sustain another.

  It made perfect sense to her, feeling the necklace in her hand. Why would she want to let go? It had found its rightful owner. It belonged to her now.

  Epilogue

  For eons water had cascaded through the mountains, dissolving some rock away, while elsewhere it remained steadfast. Water, the life force of the mountain. Shaping, transforming and bringing it to life. The solid taking on structure, the seemingly inert alighting with vigor.

  The energy of the earth that builds the mountain, then bears the burden of its existence, as it does for all things.

  Life can be sheltered in the mountain, but held in the darkness, carried by streams into the light once more. Ferried by the tributaries which nurture and nourish the land. Channelling the seemingly dead and lifeless elements from which all living things grow, reborn and reawakened.

  The most precious veins in the rock are not those that can be shaped by fire and force, but those that are nurtured and molded by nature. The hearth that is the sun, the anvil that is the land and the forge, life itself. Their creations brought forth by the craftswoman whose skills outweigh all others.

  That which is born from the rock, is returned to the earth, imbued with some of its strength. Sharing the spirit of the land and the beating heart of the mountain.

  Acknowledgment

  Thank you for downloading my book and reading this far, I hope you enjoyed it. If you did, please leave a kind review and rating. I would appreciate the encouragement to continue the series.

  Maps