by Matthew Cook
I say her name, again and again, as the storm rolls over me, casting out the last vestiges of my lingering concern and worry in a peal of thunder.
* * * *
All through breakfast—lunch I suppose, given the hour—Lia has been so happy, chatting away about this and that. It is a feeling I share, a momentary lifting of the dark cloud which has hung above me for the past few days.
"Take me with you,” Lia asks. “I am free of my duties for the day, and I would like to watch you work."
The words dispel the warm glow that surrounds me. The weight of the lies I carry within returns, heavier than a stone.
"I wish I could, but I can't,” I reply, trying to sound casual. “She's an old woman, and much concerned with her dignity. It was hard enough to convince her to allow me to examine her. If I bring along a young, fresh-faced assistant, then she may become jealous, and difficult. Best I go alone."
The clocktower bells roll out across the City, proclaiming the hour, and I hurry to finish my meal. I told Rath I would meet him at two o'clock, and I have only an hour to get to Low Town.
"Perhaps I can accompany you to her home, then, and wait for you. I am sure I can find something to do."
"It's a very rough neighborhood, dear heart, squalid and ugly. You would not like it. It's dangerous—"
"I do not think I need to fear,” she says. “Who would interfere with a mage? We protect the City and the Armitage; this, and our powers, are well known."
"True enough, but I still don't want you to come."
I busy myself with stacking the dishes, avoiding her gaze. I whisper to myself: Please, if you love me, just let the matter drop. A moment later, she gives a sigh and nods.
"You know your patient best, I suppose,” she says. Her voice cannot lie to me, though, and I hear that her own burden of worry has returned. I still the urge to apologize again. The best thing I can do for her now—for us now—is help Napaula. Once she delivers, and I get Rath's answers about the Mor, then I can walk away from him without a backwards glance.
"I wish we could spend the rest of the day together,” she says, pouting prettily, the expression almost hiding the concern I see flowering behind her eyes. “It has been such a wonderful morning, and I was hoping that later we could take a bath."
I move to her and wrap my arms around her, burying my face in her fragrant hair. She stands for a moment, stiff and awkward, then I feel her hands slide up my back. She relaxes, leaning into my embrace.
"Tonight. I can't abandon my duties, but I hope to learn what needs to be done after today's examination. I'll be home for dinner, and we can be together afterwards."
I feel her nod. She gives me a squeeze and pulls back. “Kirin, you are sure there is nothing else? It feels like—forgive me for saying so—something else is troubling you."
"It's just ... It's a bit overwhelming. What if I make a mistake? What if I can't figure out how to help Napaula? It worries me. And there are the men of my company, still up on the wall...” I trail off with a worried look to the north.
Oh, very prettily lied, I hear, very softly, barely a whisper. The voice comes from within, from the shadowed corners of my own mind. I freeze, forcing myself to not cock my head, waiting for the voice to say more.
"I can help you!” Lia says, the words tumbling from her lips. “Father can tell me all about your unit; what they have faced in the past few days. He was just telling me the Mor seem to be changing their old raiding tactics along the wall. They seem to be drawing together into bigger groups. I wonder why they are doing that? In the past they always—"
"Lia, sweetheart, I must go,” I interrupt. I kiss her briefly and give her hand a squeeze. “But if you can find out about the men, that would be wonderful. And I want to know more about what your father thinks. Perhaps we can talk after our bath,” I add with a small grin.
Lia blushes a bit and nods. “I hoped we would be busy with other things afterwards, but perhaps,” she says.
My answering smile is pure and unfeigned. There has been much darkness in my short life, so little to look forward to, but Lia is always the one bright star I can rely on. I kiss her once more and head out, swaddling myself in my cloak before trotting down the townhouse steps.
I stride down the street, headed for Rath's house. He said he would send a carriage to collect Napaula in the morning, and would be happy to have her as his guest while we completed our work. As I walk, recollections of my examinations war with more recent events. I wish I did not have to lie to Lia, but soon I will be done with Rath and Napaula. And then I can...
I frown at the thought. What will I do after I have helped the old woman? The defenders of the Armitage have made it clear they do not want me. And I do not find the intrigues of court the least bit attractive. What else is there for me then? The Imperial City is not the wilderness of the north; they do not need the skills of an herbalist and wise woman here.
Lia seems fine with supporting us both, but I know myself: I will not abide it forever. I have been alone for too long, been too independent to settle for the life of a kept woman.
I pause reflexively, awaiting my sister's commentary, but she is still silent. Hearing the whisper earlier, even though it was a denouncement, filled me with momentary hope. Perhaps she will speak to me again, soon. If she can.
The possibility that her silence is caused by some reason other than petulance occurs to me, as it has many times over the past days, but I refuse to consider it. Kirin is a ghost, a specter who resides in the corridors of my mind; she cannot be hurt, or driven out. No trauma should be able to touch her.
And yet, she remains silent. Her actions are not without precedent; she has refused to speak to me in the past. She was silent for months when I lived with the refugees in the mountains and studied the ways of the gods with Brother Ato. But even then, I was always aware of her, watching the world from behind my eyes, judging everything I said and did, albeit in silence. Now ... Now I am not so sure.
I shake my head, pushing aside the worry. I can do nothing about it now. Now I must concentrate on Napaula and on delivering her baby. I will try and let the future work itself out on its own.
I reach the manor house and let myself in through the loosely chained gates. As I cross the courtyard, I see a sweetling, lying in concealment in a patch of shriveled grass. If I did not know what it was, I would think some animal had gone there to die, but the subtle gleam of opaline eyes betrays its true nature. I wonder how many others are even now watching me, held back only by their master's will.
Eddard opens the door at my knock, and favors me with a long, resentful glare as I brush past him. I dump my cloak in his arms, then follow his directions, climbing the broad central stair to the upper floor.
The hallway at the top of the stairs is as dark and as cold as Napaula's squalid apartment building, but at least it is dry and smells only of age and dust. A door stands open midway along its length, and a wedge of golden lamplight spills across the carpet and up the wall.
Inside, Napaula sits on a freshly-made bed, propped on a stack of pillows. Her bony body is wrapped in a pale green dressing gown. She has bathed recently, and her long, bone-white hair spills across her narrow shoulders. Rath sits in a chair beside the bed, stroking her hair with a silver brush.
"There we are, milady,” he says with a flourish, reaching towards the nightstand and picking up a hand mirror. “Why, you're as pretty as a fairday maid, you are."
Napaula takes the silvered glass and peers within, a smile stretching her toothless mouth. Her eyes twinkle and, just for a moment, I see the shadow of the girl she must have been. She was lovely, once, I can tell.
The swell of her belly stretches her gown, mute reminder that everything is not as it seems with her. Her swollen hands trace around the dome, a mother's reflex, and I see her lips move as she whispers something to herself.
"Ah, there you are Kirin. Napaula arrived this morning, and Eddard and I have been working hard to make her co
mfortable. She would like to rest before we begin again, and I've not eaten since early this morning, so if you don't mind I'd like to dine. You can join me if you like, assuming that you trust Eddard's cooking. I'm sure you're eager to learn what I have to tell you about the Mor, yes?"
I nod. I squeeze the old woman's hand and promise that I will return soon.
Rath lowers the lamp until only the barest flicker of flame lights the room. Together, we exit. I watch Rath's face as he closes the door. His eyes never leave her face. In them is a look of such longing, such devotion, that for a moment I feel uncomfortable, as if I have stumbled across two lovers whispering endearments to one another.
Then the door is closed and Rath is leading me down the hallway, back towards the staircase. The expression of devotion lingers in my mind's eye, vivid as a fever dream and just as troubling. I follow him down the twisting stair.
[Back to Table of Contents]
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Eddard skulks into the dining room, a tarnished silver tureen in his hands. He deposits it on the table in front of me without ceremony. The table, like the rest of the dining room, has been recently, if inexpertly, cleaned. Streaks and whorls of dust can be seen in odd places, as if the job was done in haste.
"Woodstrider stew,” Rath explains. The food makes me wary: generally, any animal with six limbs is toxic to the human body. Once, in desperation, I used my magic to absorb the blood of another such animal, a geppar, and the experience nearly killed me. Given my history with Rath, caution seems appropriate.
Rath reads the expression on my face and laughs. “The meat, if correctly prepared, is perfectly safe. Eddard, like many country folk, learned the trick of properly cooking it in lean times. Here in the City, it is considered a delicacy. Not that you couldn't eat woodstrider meat raw, if you so desired."
"You like to live dangerously,” I say, settling back in my chair.
"Why? Because I dare eat poisoned flesh? As I said, it's perfectly safe—"
"Because if your man made an error, and the meal is indeed tainted, then I shall take my displeasure out on you, first."
The men laugh at this, as if I am joking. I can tell from the flicker of fear in Eddard's eyes that he knows I am not. Rath's own expression betrays nothing save sardonic amusement. Fine. Let him underestimate me if he desires.
Eddard ladles out a generous portion of the stew, then repeats the process for Rath. I lift my fork, spearing a small morsel and raising it to my lips. The meat is dark with a bluish cast, meltingly soft on the tongue, with a taste reminiscent of shellfish—another delicacy I have only experienced once or twice in my life. I swallow and nod my appreciation. Eddard grunts and walks from the room, leaving the serving bowl behind.
"Now then, to business. What do you really know of the Mor?” Rath asks, taking a bite of his own food.
I dab my lips with my napkin while I consider his question. “The Mor are an underground race,” I reply after a time. “Not human. They were already here when our ancestors first crossed the sea to their new home, but the settlers did not know it. When they arrived, all they saw was a green and unspoiled land. There were animals, all with six limbs instead of four, but no people. Their own stock did well in their new home, and so they broke down their ships and used them to build the first cities."
"You paid attention to your history lessons as a child. I congratulate you. But what do you know specifically of the Mor?” Rath asks, sipping red wine from a cut-glass goblet. I ignore his condescending tone and press on.
"When the settlers first arrived, they knew nothing of their underground neighbors, for the Mor do not generally travel to the surface. Men first met Mor several years after the first settlements were established. Humanity tried to talk with them, but it proved impossible."
"Do you think they were worried about men encroaching on their territory? Is that the reason for their attacks?” Rath asks.
I shake my head. “I don't think so, but of course I might be wrong. From what I was told, it sounds as if men have never explored deep enough underground to be a danger to their lands. Miners would sometimes run across their tunnels, but would avoid them whenever they could."
Rath leans forward and fixes me with his eyes. “So, what tipped the balance? Why did the Mor suddenly decide to emerge from their underground homes at the end of summer and attack the surface?"
I shrug and sip from my glass. The wine is strong, and I remind myself I still have much work to do, work which will be that much harder if my judgment is impaired. “No one knows. Since the Mor cannot, or will not, talk with us, the cause remained a mystery. All their victims knew was that the Mor seemed to want nothing less then our complete eradication. They destroyed everything: people, houses, entire towns.
"The first attack was devastating, and claimed many. In the end, it was only the use of certain weapons, terrible things the settlers had locked away and forbidden, that stopped the invasion. They drove away the Mor, but only by putting weapons of staggering destruction back into the hands of men. The result was twenty years of oppression, when Latigo Vanamore refused to return those weapons."
"Yes, indeed,” Rath agrees. “My own family was raised up in the civil war that followed. The Lans were one of the seven houses which formed the core of the rebellion against Vanamore, and who helped enthrone the first emperor."
"It's comforting to know the Lans are such patriots,” I say, assuming he desires my acknowledgement. “In any event, the civil war was a terrible blow, but the forbidden weapons were destroyed, lest they tempt another would-be dictator. Most thought the Mor were broken, and would never return, but some argued that if they were to one day reemerge we should be prepared."
"That person was my own ancestor, Amielia Lan,” Rath says.
I sigh, annoyance at his posturing and interruptions. “Is there a point to this history lesson, sir? Other than to reminisce about the wondrous contributions of the Lan family, I mean? If you desire a statue of yourself to be built, I'm sure we could take up a collection—"
"Patience, milady, patience,” he says with a laugh. “We are enjoying such a nice, civilized meal, and such wonderful conversation. History can be so fascinating, don't you think? Let's not rush things. Pray, continue."
I clench my teeth on the rude comment threatening to slip past my lips. What does this talk of events long past and his family's accomplishments have to do with the here and now? Wiser men than he have wondered about the Mor's hatred for humanity, and produced no answers. Indeed, he might simply be toying with me, wasting my time, but I do not think so. Rath thinks his wisdom, whatever it is, has merit, I'm sure of it. I moisten my palate with a fresh sip of wine and press on.
"Very well. With the Mor gone, but talk of their possible return in every ear, the decision was made to build the Armitage. The Mor do not live in the south, the heart of our empire and bread basket for all of our people, so the site which was chosen for our bulwark was here, along the Northwatch Cliffs. They used the last of the wonderful machines they had brought with them to build it, consuming all of the fuel that they had brought with them. Doing do allowed them to finish in a score of years something that otherwise would have taken generations."
Rath pushes his plate away, settling back in his chair. His long face is grave, as if he is pondering my words. I take the opportunity to take a bite of my meal.
"Do the Mor's actions make sense to you?” he finally asks.
I frown, then shrug again. I make him wait while I chew and swallow.
"I don't know,” I finally allow. “Nor am I sure it matters. The Mor's intentions seem clear every time they emerge: they kill every human, every last man, woman and even child, and strive to scour every trace of our existence from the face of the world. The reasons why they hate us really don't matter, do they?"
Don't they? I hear, or think I hear. As before, the mind whisper is so soft, barely louder than the sound of silken skirts rustling. I hold my breath, waiting for the voice t
o say something more, but Rath's words interrupt.
"I think they do. Tell me, Kirin, and be honest: was there never a moment when you faced the Mor where you felt ... something?"
His words send chill through me, as if someone is tracing an icicle down my spine. “Felt? I don't understand—"
"Do not lie to me; I can see you do,” he presses, his eyes searching my face.
I think back, to the times when I saw the spirits of the dead Mor, once in the mountains and a second time from atop the Armitage. Both times, I sensed an overwhelming depth of emotion radiating from them, as glowing embers radiate heat.
"Yes,” I whisper. “But not words. Feelings. Anger and loathing. And fear; above all, fear. But I still don't understand why—"
"What if,” Rath interrupts, silencing me with an upraised hand, “the emotions you sensed were the Mor's attempt to communicate? What if that's why nobody has ever spoken to them? Not because they do not wish it, but because we cannot understand them?"
The idea is shocking, even as the rightness of it settles over me. Yes, it could be. Their thoughts did almost at times seem to form shapes and concepts.
"It is possible, but it still does not explain the fundamental cause of their fear. It's too intense to be the product of a simple misunderstanding. And how did you know about their thoughts? I have never met anyone who claims to be able to hear them."
Not true, the whisper floats out of my mind. I stop, sure now that it is my sister, trying to speak. The silent declaration finds its mark, however, reminding me that I do know of another.
"Wait, there was someone else. My captain on the wall, the Lord Garrett. After I used the blood magic to heal him, he said he had begun to hear the Mor in his thoughts. It ... it was damaging him. Driving him mad."
Rath ponders this for a moment, then says, “It may have been because he had no way to shut them out. No way to silence the clamor of their emotions."
Sorrow creeps into Rath's tone. “It's possible that because the talent was not natural to him, as it is with others, then it was only partially gifted to him. If such were the case, perhaps the ability to not hear was something you failed to pass to him."