The Riven Wyrde Saga boxed set

by Graham Austin-King

“What does this mean?” he asked, looking at Obair. The old man was staring at the semi-conscious figure in shock.

  “I don’t know but, for some reason, it gives me hope.” The druid glanced into the kitchen. “Put some water on to boil. We've got to warm this one up.”

  They both turned as the man hissed something between lips tinged cobalt from cold.

  Obair leaned closer. “Try again?”

  “Safe?” the man whispered.

  “Yes, you’re safe here,” Obair muttered, as he raised an eyebrow at Devin.

  They watched the stranger in silence as they waited for the kettle to boil, then helped him to take a few sips of tea. As he warmed up, the shivers began and, before long, he was shaking so hard that if both of them hadn't held onto him, he’d have fallen out of the wooden chair.

  “We’ll get nothing from this one for now, Devin,” Obair decided, shaking his head. “Let’s get him into bed. We can try again once he's warmed up a little.”

  He stood at the stove, watching as Devin placed the man’s arm around his shoulder and walked him into the bedroom.

  “Tell me again,” Obair said, sipping at the cup in his hands, when Devin came back.

  Devin looked over to the small doorway that led into the bedroom. “I was working the ritual. You know, the sequences you taught me?”

  Obair nodded in silence.

  “I’d been doing it for a while. I was getting ready to give up, to be honest.” Devin started to laugh but Obair’s expression stifled it.

  He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I started to feel something. It was faint but still there. It was like a surge to begin with. I’d tried to imagine the path of the sequences, drawing the movements in my head and sort of pushing the sensations of the headache through it.” He stopped and looked up at the old man. “Does that make sense? This is hard to describe.”

  Obair nodded and waved his hand in a circle impatiently, motioning for him to continue.

  “Well, I felt a sensation, like I was right on the edges of something, but then it all shifted. It wasn’t so much that the force was coming from me but more that it was flowing into me, like someone was pushing it inwards. I felt a blinding pain and I remember seeing something weird in the air between the central stones. Then he stepped through and fell onto the grass.”

  “Did he say anything to you?” Obair pressed.

  “He started to but it was in a different language. I couldn’t understand him. When I told him that, he sort of smiled and then spoke in Anlish.”

  “What did he say?” Obair quizzed.

  “He asked where he was,” Devin said. “What does this mean, Obair? How did they even come through the stones? I thought they were fae to start with!”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t think that was possible. Did they come from where the fae are? Did they come from somewhere else? I don’t have any answers, my boy, I’m afraid. We’ll have to wait for them to wake up before we get anything from them.”

  Devin sighed and looked at the books that were strewn across the desk. “How about these? Have you found anything of use?”

  Obair’s eyes flickered to a small book at the edge of the desk before he looked back at him. “Not really. There’s a lot of it to go through. Nothing so far.” His words were flat, but his eyes were haunted.

  ***

  Obair raised an eyebrow as the young man made his way into the main room of the cottage. “I didn’t expect to see you up so soon,” he said, with a smile.

  “I probably shouldn’t be,” he replied. His face was still drawn and he leaned heavily on the wall as he made his way to an empty chair.

  “Well, I expect you might feel better with some food inside you. We haven’t much, but you’re welcome to some porridge, if you’d like some?” He motioned to Devin, who spooned some out into a wooden bowl in response to the man’s small nod.

  “I expect you have quite the tale to tell. Do you feel up to answering some questions? Your name is probably a good way to start.”

  The man nodded as he ate a small mouthful. “My name is Joran,” he managed around the porridge.

  “Joran,” the druid said, testing out the word. “I'm Obair. Now, my young friend here, Devin, says that he saw you two come out from the stones. I’ve only ever seen fae and satyrs do that. How did you manage it?”

  “We escaped,” Joran said. “We were both held in the slave camps near the fae city of Tir Rhu’thin. When we escaped, we stumbled upon the ruins of a human city. There were glyphs there that Ylsriss was able to use to get us home.”

  Obair’s eyes widened. “This might be faster if I just ask you some questions, rather than interrupting you every two minutes.”

  Joran smiled and nodded, taking another mouthful of porridge.

  “Ylsriss? That's the name of the woman you're with?” Obair waited for the nod. “So, you escaped? Am I right in thinking you were in the world of the fae?”

  “They call it the Realm of Twilight, but yes.”

  “And there are other humans there?”

  “Hundreds, maybe thousands. More arrive every day. I never saw all of the camps and there are many more in the breeding pens.”

  “Breeding pens?” Devin burst out.

  Obair held a hand up quickly to stop Joran’s response. “No, wait. Let me ask things in order or it’ll just get confused. Tell us about the other humans there,” Obair asked, after a moment.

  “Most are taken there as young children, some still as babies. I think the idea is that they grow up in the Realm of Twilight and never know any other life. If you don't know that there is anywhere else, why would you try to escape? Even those that weren’t captured as children accept their lot, though. There’s something about the fae that makes humans compliant and docile if they stay with them for too long. Ylsriss calls it the Touch,” Joran shrugged. “It’s as good a name as any.”

  Obair opened his mouth to speak and then stopped, frowning. “Hold on a moment. You said children grow up there? How long were you there?”

  “I don’t know for certain,” Joran explained. “It’s hard to tell the time, the days work differently. The sun isn’t in the sky for long. I was probably about nine or ten when I was taken and I think I’m seventeen now. No older than nineteen, anyway.”

  “You don’t know?” Devin asked, his face twisted in disbelief.

  “You don’t understand. I was under the Touch for a long time. Nothing matters to you when you’re like that. Not the passage of time, not hunger. All you live for is to please the fae.” He fell silent, staring into the empty bowl in front of him.

  “I’m sorry,” Devin said, in a soft voice. “I didn’t understand.”

  Joran snorted. “You still don’t. There’s no way you could.”

  They carried on, Obair asking question after question and becoming increasingly disturbed by the answers. They listened as Joran told the tale of the fae realm, their escape and discovery of the human city, and finally the fae that had helped them to find their way out through the stones.

  “This is what confuses me the most,” Obair confessed, as he sipped at a cup of tea. “Why would she help you?”

  “I don’t know,” Joran shrugged. “We’d grown close, but there was much that Aervern didn’t share with me. She did make it clear that she and her kind have nothing to do with those at Tir Rhu’thin though.”

  “Hold on for a moment, Obair.” Devin stopped him. “I think maybe the problem is we’re thinking of the fae just as monsters. An evil force intent on killing us all.”

  “Aren’t they?” Obair asked, giving him a look.

  “Well, perhaps, but what if they’re more. What if, in some ways, we’re not that dissimilar?”

  “Go on?”

  “Well, look at us. Mankind. Our world. We’re made up of who knows how many nations and peoples. We don’t all want the same things. Who’s to say the fae do either?”

  “Did she say anything else? Any little thing might be important,” Obair pressed.


  Joran’s face twisted in concentration as he tried to remember. “She did say something. She said that her people hadn’t had direct contact with those that had returned yet.”

  “Those that had returned? Returned from where?” Devin broke in, but fell silent at a look from Obair.

  “There’s not much more. He’s right, though.” Joran nodded at Devin. “There's a lot we don’t know. She mentioned something about a court. I don’t know what that means.”

  “Factions?” Obair muttered to himself. “What about the woman with you? Will she know more?”

  “Not really,” Joran shrugged. “I doubt she’ll want to talk to me after what I did, anyway.”

  “What did you do? It sounds like you saved her!” Devin said, before he could stop himself.

  “I did, I suppose,” Joran said, in a low voice. “At the end, though, she couldn’t leave her baby. We’d agreed we would try to search for him, but then there was the city and the satyrs coming at us...I couldn’t just leave here there to die, could I?”

  “What did you do?”

  “I hit her,” Joran confessed. “She wasn’t thinking straight, so I hit her, then picked her up and carried her. I dragged her through the stones to keep her safe, but I’ve stolen her baby from her as much as the fae ever did.”

  ***

  Ylsriss woke to pain. Her entire body ached, as though she’d spent a hard day in the fields. She rolled over in the bed, wrinkling her nose at the stale smell, and her eyes snapped open. This wasn’t her bed or even her blanket. Where was she? She pushed herself up, trying to see through the darkness. Someone was breathing softly nearby. She wasn’t alone.

  “Joran.” The word was a whispered curse in the darkness and, as she spoke, it all came back to her. The satyrs, the glyphs at the stone circle, and Joran sweeping her into his arms and carrying her onto the stone plate, as she screamed at him to leave her there.

  The memory was bitter, bringing a foul taste to her mouth, and she clenched her fists as she thought of it. She stood, steadying herself on the edge of the bed, and looked towards the source of the breathing, as her eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness. It was him.

  For a moment, she just watched him as he lay there, the fury within her growing at the sight of him sleeping in peace, guiltless. Ylsriss threw herself onto his bed, punching him scratching him and screaming at him, all at once. He grunted in pain and then grabbed at her as she punched at him, rolling with her until they crashed down onto the floor.

  “Ylsriss!” he yelled, trying to get a word through her screams. “Ylsriss, stop!”

  “You took me. I told you to leave me, you bastard!” She screeched and clawed at his face.

  His hand went to his cheek and he could feel the blood. “Shit…” He reached for her wrists and pinned her to the rough floor. “Ylsriss, just calm do…” He cut off as she slammed her knee up hard, and he crashed sideways to the floor with the high-pitched whimper that only a well-placed kick between the legs can produce.

  Lamplight flooded the room as a door opened, and she felt hands on her, pulling her away from him. The fight left her all at once. The anger draining away in a flood, and the void that remained was swiftly filled with the certain knowledge that she’d never see her baby again. She felt her knees give way and the strength left her. As the tears flowed, hot and bitter, she sagged down into the nameless arms that held her.

  They led her through into another room and sat her down in a chair. She was vaguely aware that they had helped Joran as well, but she didn’t really care about that. The tears wracked her body. It seemed like she was tearing flesh from her own throat with each retching sob.

  A hand fell gently on her shoulder and then a man handed her a steaming cup. His face was old. Weary and old, but the sympathy in his eyes was real.

  “Ylsriss?” Joran’s voice. She didn’t want to hear it. He could rot. She sniffed the cup. It was a tea of some kind.

  “Ylsriss?” he called again, his voice soft but insistent. She turned her face to him, trying to muster as much hate as she could as she glared at him.

  He recoiled from her expression and she felt a tiny spark of satisfaction.

  “Ylsriss, I know you don’t want to talk to me. It’s just you can’t speak their language. I just want you to know that you’re okay here. We’re safe.”

  She considered hurling the tea into his face, cup and all, but settled for sipping it. The others were babbling away in their language. She couldn’t understand a word. It was faster than Islik, all Rs and Ls. She wondered how Joran could pick out enough to make sense of it.

  The old man seemed to be questioning Joran intently, leaning forward on his chair. The looks he was giving her made it clear they were talking about her. The other one was a young man, around Joran’s age, perhaps, although it was hard to tell. He looked on, speaking occasionally but seeming content to listen, for the most part. He looked at her suddenly, as if feeling her eyes on him. His expression was questioning but friendly enough.

  On an impulse, she stood and walked over to the door, stepping out into the night. The sky was cloudy but a few pinpricks of light showed through. Stars, she realised. Stars and moonlight. The night air was cool and she revelled in it. The Realm of Twilight had never really grown cold and it felt wonderful to feel goosebumps rise.

  She heard footsteps behind her and turned. The young man held the grimy blanket up, raising an eyebrow to make it a question. She nodded her thanks and let him drape it around her shoulders.

  “Devin,” he said, pointing at himself.

  Was that his name? A request? She pointed at him. “Deh’vin?” The word felt odd, the inflections flat and nasal.

  “Devin,” he corrected her, with a smile.

  “Ylsriss,” she said, pointing at herself.

  They spent time pointing out simple things and naming them. The sky, the stars, the moon. She knew she wouldn’t remember half of the strange words, but it was something to occupy her mind. It felt odd not knowing what time it was. It looked like the middle of the night, but it felt like it should be morning.

  Devin broke off as Joran came out to join them.

  “What do you want?” she snapped.

  “I thought I should fill you in on what I’ve learned,” he said.

  Try as she might, she couldn’t find fault with that. “Fine,” she said. “How do you know their language, anyway?”

  “When I was first taken, it was the only language the others spoke in the pens.” He shrugged. “It’s been a long time, but I remember enough to be able to make myself understood.”

  Ylsriss nodded. “So?”

  “We’re in a place called Anlan,” Joran explained. “I think it's the place you told me about. The Farmed Lands?”

  “Fine.” She looked at him with cold despite. “Go away.”

  He looked like he was going to say more, but then turned away without a word.

  Ylsriss lived in a fog for the next couple of days. She ate when food was given to her and slept when it was dark, although it took days for her to become accustomed to the time again. Day still felt like night and, try as she might, she couldn’t get to sleep when she should. She felt numb. No, it was more than that. It wasn’t that she couldn’t feel, it was just that she couldn’t bring herself to care.

  The others worked to expand the living space in cottage as best they could, making up extra beds in the main room. Devin and Joran hunted, while she tried to resurrect the vegetable plot, picking through the weeds in a half-hearted attempt to rescue the remaining plants.

  The old man spent most of his time searching through the books in the cottage. When he wasn’t reading, he peppered them both with questions, with Joran translating as best he could.

  She sat on the small bench in the clearing that contained the standing stones. It was peaceful there and she felt closer to Effan when she was near the stones. The breeze was just enough to rustle the leaves above her head and she took a strange joy in seeing
green, rather than the reds and golds of the Realm of Twilight.

  Devin was moving about the clearing, practising the odd ritual he did, when she heard the leaves crunch behind her. She didn’t need to look up to know it was Joran.

  “What do you want?”

  “I thought we should talk,” he said, simply. “It’s time, Ylsriss. We can’t go on like this.”

  She looked round at him, genuinely confused. “Like what, Joran? This isn’t some little fight. You didn’t upset me somehow or lose your temper and say something that you regret. You dragged me out of one world and into another. You made it certain that I can never see Effan again.”

  “You’d have been killed, Ylsriss,” Joran retorted. “Surely you must understand that? There was no way you could have made it past the satyrs.”

  “You had no right!” She bit off the words. Her temper was rising now and the bitter sting of tears pricked at her eyes.

  “I couldn’t just leave you there to die!” Joran insisted.

  “Why not? It was my choice!” Her voice rose and Ylsriss realised she’d stood and was shrieking at him. She rubbed the tears away with the back of one hand and sat back on the bench.

  “You know, now I wonder how much of it was about me.” Her voice, which had been filled with anger as she screamed at him, was now cold and dispassionate.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You had no one to come back for,” Ylsriss began. She spoke in calm, level tones that cut deeper than her frenzied screaming ever could have. “You have no home to go to, no place in this world where you belong. I doubt you even remember where your family is, if you even have one left. You weren’t saving me from the satyrs, Joran, you were saving me for yourself!”

  Joran’s face turned ashen as he looked down at her. “Ylsriss, you must know that’s not true.”

  “I don’t know anything. I would never have believed you’d do something like this. That you’d even be capable of it.”

  He looked away from her, gazing blankly into the clearing where Devin worked the ritual of the Wyrde, oblivious to their argument.

  “Yes, look away, Joran,” she spat at him. “I can’t stand to meet your eyes. I don’t think you have any idea how much I despise the very sight of you!”