Oblivion's Grasp

by Eric T Knight

  “When a mommy and a daddy love each other very much…” Ya’Shi trailed off. “Sorry. It wasn’t like that at all. But how it happened isn’t what’s important.”

  All his silliness disappeared and his tone grew serious. “A storm is coming. A terrible storm. Nothing you or I, or any of us, can do will stop it.” He set his fingers on the baby’s forehead.

  “But she might. She and two others.”

  Jenett held out the baby and Netra took her. The green eyes had stayed fixed on her the entire time. They were the green of the deep sea and there were flecks of white in there like whitecaps on a windy day.

  “One from each of the spheres, Stone, Sea and Sky,” Ya’Shi continued. “Only the three of them, working together, have any chance in what is to come.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jenett said. “Truly I am. You of all people know what a burden it can be, saving the world.”

  “But that’s why you’re the right person to raise her,” Ya’Shi said. “Well, enough idle chat. We must be going so you can get back to your important things.” He took hold of Jenett’s arm and began to guide her back into the surf.

  “Wait!” Netra called after them. “What’s going to happen? Where are these other children?”

  “One is to the north,” Ya’Shi said over his shoulder. “Another is across the sea. Don’t look for them. When the time is right they will be drawn together.”

  “You have to tell me more than that,” Netra pleaded.

  “Goodbye!” Ya’Shi called, still holding onto Jenett and propelling her firmly in front of him. “Good luck!”

  They walked through the surf, then up the side of ki’Loren. They passed through the opening, it closed behind them, and the floating island began to move away.

  Leaving Netra with a baby.

  Prologue: Karliss

  The wind was crazy the day the baby was born. It shrieked around the hide yurt where the expectant mother lay, attended by Spotted Elk Clan’s midwife and two other women. It scratched and clawed like a wild thing trying to get in, tearing at the flap, trying to get under the edge of the yurt and send it flying across the high steppes where the Sertithian people lived their nomadic lives.

  But the Sertithians were familiar with the ways of the wind and the yurt was strongly constructed and tightly staked down so it stayed intact and in place, though the hide it was made of thrummed and vibrated steadily.

  “It will be over soon,” the midwife said, as one of the other women bathed the expectant mother’s forehead with a damp cloth. “One more long push should do it.” The yurt was lit by a pair of oil-burning clay lamps. There were two small wicker baskets containing clothes and another filled with tools and sewing implements. A sheathed sword leaned against the wall of the yurt, along with an unstrung bow and a quiver of arrows.

  “For months this child has fought and kicked, as though he could not bear his captivity another moment. Now the time comes and he won’t budge. Will he always be this difficult?” The expectant mother spoke in a light tone, but her face was pale with pain. The furs she lay on were wet with her sweat. She was a young woman and this was her second child but she had been half a day trying to deliver the child already.

  “Just breathe, Munkhe,” the midwife said. “It will all be over soon.”

  “The tlacti told me it would be a son,” Munkhe said. The tlacti was the clan’s shaman. “He said the wind told him so.” The other women already knew this. Such things became common knowledge quickly in such a tightly-knit community. They also knew she spoke to take her mind off the pain.

  “If Ihbarha said it will be a boy, then it will be a boy,” the midwife replied calmly.

  Munkhe grimaced as another contraction came on. She gritted her teeth and pushed.

  “I can see the top of his head,” the midwife said. As if to punctuate her words a fresh gust of wind shook the yurt.

  “The wind is also anxious for your child to be born,” the fourth woman in the yurt said. Henta was elderly, with a severe expression and a downturned mouth that said she rarely smiled. “Perhaps this means he will be touched by it.”

  “Pray to the four winds it is so,” Munkhe said through gritted teeth. She wasn’t sure she wanted her son to be the next tlacti, but Ihbarha was old. It was past time for a wind-touched child to be born to the Spotted Elk Clan.

  “One more push and it will all be over,” the midwife said.

  Munkhe’s back arched as she gave another, mighty push. A cry came from her as the pain increased but she did not let up and a few moments later the baby slid forth into the world.

  At that same instant a new shriek arose from the wind as it buffeted the yurt. The wooden pins holding the door flap of the yurt closed snapped under the strain and the flap blew open.

  The wind raced into the yurt like a wild animal, whining in its eagerness. It seemed to focus on the child, whirling around it with such strength that for a moment the midwife feared it would be snatched from her and she clutched it tightly to her breast. The other women cried out and Henta made a sign against evil.

  Then, as fast as it appeared, the wind was gone. The women stared at each other, shaken and confused.

  “Never have I seen such a thing,” Henta said.

  “My baby!” Munkhe cried, struggling to sit up and see. “How is my baby?”

  The midwife brushed the baby’s mouth and nose clear. “He is healthy.”

  “It’s a boy?” Munkhe asked.

  But the midwife didn’t answer right away. She was looking at the baby, a strange expression on her face.

  The other women bent close. “Most peculiar,” Henta said.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Munkhe said, fighting against the furs which seemed determined to wrap around her. “Is something wrong with him?”

  “It’s nothing,” the midwife said soothingly. “Help her sit up,” she told the others, and when they had done so she handed Munkhe her child.

  “Oh,” Munkhe said. “I see.”

  The baby’s eyes were wide open, which was unusual by itself. But even more startling was the color of those eyes. They were the blue of a summer sky and blue eyes were extremely rare amongst the Sertithians.

  Not only were the baby boy’s eyes wide open, but he had a huge smile on his face. He looked like he was laughing at some secret jest.

  “I think it is time to fetch the tlacti,” the midwife said, and the younger of the two women bustled out of the yurt to summon him.

  “So long as he is healthy. That is all that matters,” Munkhe said stoutly. The midwife and Henta nodded their agreement, but neither of them spoke. Munkhe looked from them to her baby and clutched him close, murmuring to him.

  When the tlacti arrived he swept into the yurt without a word or look for any of them. The furs Ihbarha was dressed in were old and ratty. He had a piece of felt wrapped around his head like a turban. On each cheek was tattooed an arcane symbol. His white hair was long and twisted into twin braids, into which were tied a number of small bones, colorful stones, and clay discs. Around his neck, on a leather thong, hung his krysala, the relic he used to summon and control the spirits in the wind.

  He went straight to the baby and took him from Munkhe’s arms, who gave him up without complaint. He held the baby up and closed his eyes. He stayed that way for a minute, then lowered the child and pressed his ear to the baby’s chest. He listened for another minute, then raised his head.

  “He’s touched by the wind, isn’t he?” Henta said. She tried to keep the unhappiness out of her voice but didn’t quite succeed.

  The old shaman shook his head. He looked down at the tiny infant, his creased and weathered face betraying his awe and surprise.

  “The wind has not marked him. The wind has made its home inside him.”

  Stone Bound

 

 

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