“Come with me to help Calidell – to help keep the rest of the family safe. Help me to stop all the wars in our home,” he repeated under his breath. The more he thought about the words he would use, the more he realised how little he really knew Kalad. Silar and The Hunter had been the effective fathers of his son, and Morghiad had frequently imagined he would speak to Kalad as if he had been one of those men. Kalad ought to have acquired something of Silar’s roguish manner and casual swearing, or perhaps some aspects of The Hunter’s more direct nature, but Morghiad had spoken so few times to his youngest son that he had detected none of these things in him. Not that their conversations had been easy enough for any humour to manifest itself.
Morghiad struggled not to sigh again, and instead occupied his mind with the business of putting his map away as neatly as possible. After that, he lay back against the smooth bark of the tree. Tyshar already appeared to have greeted sleep upon his long legs, and his great head was completely obscured by a cascade of dark mane. Morghiad smiled as he remembered trying to cut it when Tyshar had not been much more than an overgrown foal. Even then, the animal’s cantankerousness had been evident. Tyshar’s mane had not been cut since.
There were times when Morghiad wondered if, by sharing his blood, the horse had assimilated something of the Shade Panther’s nature. But then he remembered how uncharacteristically sweet Tyshar would be around Artemi, and that could only have meant the animal had the blood of the man in him rather than the monster. Then again, Morghiad had never been irascible with people he had not met before, had he?
Thoughts of the monster brought him to ruminations on his first death. He had relived those last few days over and over again in his mind so many times. If he had not made that choice, would he still be ruling Calidell at this moment? Would Artemi still be the handsome queen at his side? And would Kalad look more fondly upon his father? Their eldest son would still be dead, of course, and that was a sore thought to consider.
A full thirty minutes of staring at the tree canopy above to try and see the stars beyond had revealed to him that he could identify the same constellations as were visible in Calidell. Artemi had spoken of the alternative versions of themselves that existed in other worlds, and that sometimes decisions and events could be different in those places. Was it only the actions of men and women, or would the stars be the same in those places? Tallyn would be alive in several worlds, perhaps, and maybe he was happy there. There had to be one place in the universe where everyone was content and free of problems; it was only fair.
Morghiad fell asleep whilst dreaming of that perfect world, and when he awoke the next morning, he found Tyshar dozing on the ground at his side. It was a strange thing to see a warhorse slumber with his hooves tucked beneath him and his eyes closed in blissful reverie. Morghiad decided not to wake the animal while he went to find somewhere to bathe.
On the way down to the brook that babbled over what must have been the only visible stone for miles, he spotted a dark creature padding about in the undergrowth. Morghiad’s senses for panthers sparked at that moment, and he was suddenly aware of several tens of the creatures in the immediate vicinity. No – hundreds. Calidell’s population was weak in comparison to this! There must have been thousands of them - perhaps several hundreds of thousands on this continent. He called to the one that was close by, and held out his hand for the creature to sniff. After a moment of hesitancy, she nuzzled the palm of his hand and made an odd sort of grunting noise at him. Morghiad had the notion that it meant she would tolerate his presence in her territory.
He gave her a quick scratch behind the ears, and continued on his way to bathe. Once done, he saddled up a now-impatient Tyshar and headed into the town for supplies. As it turned out, his horse was quite eager to stamp his way up the planks that led skyward along the exterior of the vast tree trunks. Mid-way up, they happened upon a stable complex, and Tyshar was homed and fed there for a few hours, while Morghiad went on alone to find some sustenance for himself.
Most of the people in Sokiri had facial features that were quite unique to the continent, and were distinguishable from his own, very Sennefhal-ian look by their shorter noses and angled eyes. Morghiad sometimes wondered if Artemi ever inherited some of the look of the country into which she was born. She had definitely been a Sokirin a few times, but had she ever appeared to be anything but the daughter of foreigners there? Would the same thing happen to him? He made a mental note to ask her when they were reunited.
In time, he found a bank in which to exchange some of his coin for the local currency, though he was quite sure that the deal they offered was not an entirely equitable one, and then he found a comfortable-looking inn. Comfortable, at least, until he glanced downward and realised he could see the distant ground glowing between the gaps in the floorboards. Morghiad shook his head free of thoughts of falling, and settled to eat some of the peculiar food that the barman set before him. He then took his obligatory sip of the local ale that was offered with it, as apparently it was normal to drink in the mornings here and then sober up in the evenings, but still found it an odd taste at this time of day.
As he replaced the tankard back on the table, his field of view was filled with the face of a snarling Sokirin. Morghiad said nothing, and waited for the other man to speak first. When that did not happen, he ventured an, “Excuse me, have I taken your seat?”
The man swept Morghiad’s food onto the floor with a growl, and the plate shattered into several large, red shards. “How about my WIFE?!” he roared.
“I have not done anything with y-”
“You can try and tie your hair into little-girl plaits and shave your face – but I’d know that damned Sennefahlian mug anywhere! Coward!” He punctuated his words by flicking his fingers at the level of his hips, a sure sign of disrespect from a Sokirin.
Morghiad was beginning to gain some idea of what might have happened, and how protestations of his innocence would be likely to fall upon ears that would not hear. He chose not to allow the man’s comments about his lidir to rile him, and instead stepped out of his chair and kept his bearing relaxed. Already most of the inn’s patrons had moved to the edges of the room to watch. “Perhaps you have me confused with my son. Tell me what he has done, and we can resolve whatever problems exist.”
“Son? Well then, you ought to pay for raising such an unscrupulous bastard!” The Sokirin man threw a wild punch at Morghiad’s face, but Morghiad leaned out of the way before it could make contact.
“I do not wish to fight with you,” Morghiad said as he found himself dodging another blow. After several more missed punches it became clear that, while this Sokirin was no bladed warrior, he did know something of fighting. Morghiad had to work increasingly hard to step free of the attacks and not to break into a backward run. Eventually, he made a hit of his own, but the Sokirin man blocked it and used his opportunity to land a blow under Morghiad’s ribs.
Blazes, how he hated bare-knuckle fighting! He had by now dispensed with his sword and rolled up his sleeves, though he really need not have bothered. After only a few more thumps and kicks, they were both bloodied all over. The fight tumbled out of the inn and onto the suspended walkway beyond, where Morghiad’s fists met with wooden pillars and his skin was filled with splinters. The Sokirin tried to wrestle him into various sorts of holds, but Morghiad had learned enough from Artemi and Koviere to know how to escape from them before he became trapped.
Fetch your sword, the monsters whispered in his mind, but he resisted. It will end this problem for you.
Morghiad was no murderer; this man had to run out of energy eventually.
As they stepped onto one of the many platforms that served as joints between the suspended walkways, he managed to land three quick punches in succession, whereupon the Sokirin man fell to the floor. He coughed up a little blood, and Morghiad lowered his fists. “Now, will you tell me what happened to cause this-”
Before he could finish, the Sokirin rose from t
he ground suddenly, and thrust Morghiad backwards. Morghiad was able to fend off some of the force of it, but not enough to prevent his back from sliding off the edge of the platform. The rest of his body followed before he could stop it, and he somersaulted just in time to catch a rope that dangled below. He swung about violently from the momentum of his fall, but the gentle breeze that moved inside the forest soon made his swing even messier. It was a long way down to the ground beneath him.
He looked up, and observed his new enemy was reaching toward his rope with a knife. It was one of Morghiad’s knives – probably dropped during the fight. Morghiad cursed loudly, and put some effort into making the rope swing in a useful direction. It creaked under his weight as he moved, but after a second push, it had swayed far enough toward one of the suspended walkways for him to let go. He descended to the planks with a landing that any Kusuru would have been proud of, and watched the rope he had held as it dropped freely to the buildings below.
The man had stolen his knife, would not listen to reason, and had just tried to kill him. An old, familiar feeling of ire started to bubble in Morghiad’s blood. His thoughts of peace and light would have to be put aside for the moment, while one of the monsters would be permitted to do what it liked to do. He gave up control of his muscles to it, and soon he was sprinting back up the walkways to do battle with his opponent.
When he saw the man, he set his teeth together and leapt at him with a roar. Morghiad’s vision was suffused with blackness in that instant, as if his own blood had grown dark from the rage that ran through it, and his own consciousness was blinded enough for him to forget exactly what it was that he did. When he finally stopped hitting the Sokirin, he found the man had transformed into a bloody mess beneath him. He was still murmuring, but just about every bone in his body had to have been broken.
Blazes, but this was the same savagery he had unleashed upon Linfar! Morghiad quickly checked that the monsters in his head were tethered. When had he ever thought it acceptable to let one free?! Looking up, he realised he had drawn enough spectators to fill the walkways. He glanced back at the injured man. “What did my son do with your wife?”
“What do you think?” he spluttered back.
Morghiad elected not to try to make denials or excuses, and instead left his victim amidst a pool of his own blood, pushed through the gawping crowd, and went to recover his sword. With his property re-secured, he grabbed a bread roll from the remains of the food he had ordered and made his departure from the scene. He took hasty bites out of the roll as he walked briskly back to Tyshar, and tried desperately to avoid eye contact with any other man or woman along the way. Truly, he would have wished to buy more food before he left, but he could not afford to stay in this town any longer.
The stablemen all backed away from him when he arrived to claim his horse, and so he placed the coin he owed onto their counter and apologised for the bloody fingerprints he left on it. After that, he collected Tyshar and they rode north to the next city. There, Morghiad was able to buy enough supplies to last him several days and might have stayed a few moments longer, if it had not been for the furious crowd of women who hissed and spat at him. He did attempt to point out that his eyes were green and not the dark brown of his son’s, but that did not seem to quiet them at all.
By the time he was back on the road again, his mood could only have been described as irritable at best. If this was the sort of reception a womaniser would regularly receive, were the rewards really worth the hassle? He grasped the reins tightly, and ground his teeth as he travelled on. It took him another two days of secretive village stops and night-time riding to reach Curkovi, but Tyshar seemed content to gallop for large portions of the distance. The sunsets proved to be as fiery and red as the Blazes themselves when viewed from the treetop settlements, and that, combined with the scenery along the ride, did help to calm the monsters in Morghiad’s mind a little.
The people who had not met his son were warm and generous toward him when he asked for guidance, and life amongst the spirewood trees was quiet and protected from the very worst of winds. Perhaps, when Artemi returned and all of their overriding duties were done, they could both live here for a short while. It would have to be in a place Kalad had not yet visited, but that ought not to be too hard to discover.
Don’t get angry, Morghiad repeated to himself as he handed Tyshar’s reins to a buxom, smiling stable hand. Don’t get angry. He turned from her, ordered one of the inn’s servants to take his belongings to the room he had paid for, and made his way to the central platform of the town. As it turned out, Curkovi only had two inns amongst its hanging buildings. One was made from the finest and most intricately carved hardwood that Morghiad had ever seen. Sprigs of herb shrubs and perfumed flowers grew out of it, while its clientele looked to be clean and well-dressed. The other tavern appeared to have been assembled from jagged pieces of an old ship, the windows were dark holes that revealed nothing of any life within the building, and one man stood vomiting outside of it.
Morghiad decided to look in the rougher tavern first. It was not that he had a low opinion of his youngest son – more that he felt he was getting to know what sorts of adventures excited the boy. Not a boy, Morghiad reminded himself.
He readied the speech he had rehearsed so that it would spring from his tongue as soon as he spoke to Kalad, and stepped into the shadows of the doorway. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the very poor illumination that emanated from a single, feeble lamp, and for his nose to grow accustomed to the sour smells of old beer and damp wood. He heard a low growl, and immediately identified the wolf from which it came. So, Danner still did not like him much.
He was surprised, however, when the return of his sight revealed that Danner’s anger was not directed at him, but at another patron of the inn. A burly, blonde-haired Sokirin woman, covered from head to toe in piercings, had a man pinned to the table and was busily shouting profanities at him. The recipient of her insults was black haired, bearded, and undoubtedly Kalad. All plans of rehearsed speeches and prepared words departed Morghiad’s mind, and he approached quietly.
“…and if you think that you can follocking-well get away with waving your cock about all over this town, sticking it into whatever you please, then you have another thing coming! How’s about we cut the damned thing off? Then perhaps you’ll learn!” The woman withdrew a black blade from her pocket. “Call the wolf off, or you get this in the neck rather than just the member.”
“The wolf stays,” Morghiad said. He had already withdrawn his sword of white stone, and though he might have appeared relaxed to the most uneducated of fighters, he was very ready to use it. “Your fight with this man is over.”
Kalad’s eyes widened appreciably when he saw who had spoken in his defence, but his assailant did not so much as blink. Instead, her hand twitched to shove the dagger into Kalad’s side.
Morghiad leapt toward her to make a strike with his sword, but was too slow to reach her before her blade thrust into Kalad’s torso. The flat side of Morghiad’s sword knocked her backwards, causing her to release her grip upon her weapon, and she fell to the floor with a loud grunt.
Kalad was groaning loudly, and clutching at the hilt in an attempt to pull it out of himself. He succeeded, but already something odd was happening to his skin. While the dagger still rattled on the floorboards, a bloom of darkness spread over Kalad’s face, down his neck and through to his fingertips. It turned to black, and became shiny like the surface of an oil slick. Like an eisiel.
Artemi had described it once – that it looked to be painful, but had served to save his life. In years before, there had been a moment of embarrassment when a trickster had tried to test this particular quirk of Kalad’s, and had slipped tiny amounts of pinh into his food. The transformation had taken an hour to manifest, but the timing had caused him to turn into an eisiel during one of Artemi’s audiences with her public. It had only been Silar’s itchiness from his predictive powers that had prov
ided him with enough foresight to insist that Kalad be kept at the rear of the room on that day, and close to friends who understood. For the people of Calidell to have seen such things in their royal family would have damaged Jade’an popularity immeasurably, even if Acher had been more of a monster than Kalad could ever be.
But his changed appearance was all that was required to force his attacker’s eyes to roll backward into perfect, white circles. Her head thumped as it hit the floor beneath, and she was out.
“Kal,” Morghiad said quietly, re-sheathing his sword. “With me. Now.” He held his hand out to his son, who was standing but still pinh-covered and hesitant. Even his clothes had turned to the thick, black substance that Morghiad had seen dripping from Mirel’s creations – almost as if he had been dunked into one of Gilkore’s barrels of the stuff. How was that possible? “Kal!”
Kalad looked at him with suspicion, or at least it seemed like he did. It was hard to tell beneath his mask of eisiel blood. But then the dark liquid began to recede, and Morghiad knew his opportunity was now.
He grabbed Kalad by the arm, and all but dragged him out of the tavern. Danner followed them eagerly as they paced down the walkway and toward the inn where Morghiad was staying. When they arrived at the entrance, he turned to appraise his son, whose features and clothing had by now returned to normal. A bearded, confused and dark-eyed version of himself looked back at him.
“How is that stab wound?” Morghiad went to inspect the tear in Kalad’s shirt, but his son caught his hand before he could.
“It won’t have left a mark. I’ve had enough encounters like that to know.”
Don’t get angry about it. “If you caused less trouble, perhaps fewer people would want to stab you.”
“That didn’t stop you last time,” Kalad said. “What are you doing here?”
Danner sat on his haunches at their feet and looked between them both expectantly. The wolf appeared to have decided to be more tolerant of Morghiad’s presence on this occasion.
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