“You’ve been spending a lot of time in your room,” Har’eth observed one cloudy afternoon as they were threshing the wheat in one of the fields at the far western end of the village’s borders. “I would have thought you’d want to take all the time you could with us.”
“You don’t think I have?” Ja’keth replied, grunting slightly as he swept his scythe across the swaying grain. For the first time in the week since he had arrived in Belor’s Reach the sky was clouded over, and a growing wind and the dampness of the air promised rain. “I’ve spent every spare second tending to a sinkhole in a field or a creaky floorboard. And if I have to track down Mor’leath’s goat one more time, I’ll send the Blood-cursed thing to Las’ken myself.” He laughed, but Har’eth did not smile.
“That’s not what I mean, Ja’keth. You’ve been almost silent since you got here. I thought you wanted to come home to get away from the problems of the Empire. Instead it feels like you’ve brought them with you.”
Ja’keth dropped the blade of his scythe to the ground and leaned on the handle, looking at Har’eth. The faintest bit of gray had snuck into the black and brown around his muzzle, and the skin around his eyes betrayed a slight wrinkle. Blood, he’s getting older, Ja’keth thought. But then, so am I. But he simply shook his head and smiled. “Sorry. Life in the Hammers is…difficult to get away from, sometimes.”
“You mean the people around you won’t let you get away from it?” Har’eth replied. “The ones who curse you, spit at you? Who think of you as one of Ar’sheth’s trained dogs that he throws raw meat for his enjoyment?”
Ja’keth’s head snapped up, eyes narrowed in anger as his hands tightened around the scythe, but Har’eth did not step away. “I’ve heard the stories about the Hammers, Ja’keth. Most people in Belor’s Reach don’t know what you do, but I do…at least some of it.” He shook his head and sighed. “I can’t pretend to know what it’s like, of course. You always saw more than I did, thought more than you told me, even when we were cubs.” He looked away, into the horizon where the clouds were darkening. “And if what you do helps—helps stop what happened to…” He trailed off and blinked, then turned back to Ja’keth with a fierce expression. “Then it’s worth it, no matter what anyone thinks of you. It’s worth it to me.” He held Ja’keth’s gaze for a moment, then turned away and walked off, holding his scythe loosely in one hand as the Warden watched him go.
That night was a bad one for Ja’keth, the worst he’d had in several weeks. He tossed and turned in restless sleep. Flames licked the edges of the city where he wandered with his axe, seeking survivors while the cries of the dead and dying fell thickly on the air until he thought his lungs were too full of it to breathe. Loud explosions sounded nearby, and the wind whipped the stinging smoke into his eyes. Suddenly, very close by, he heard a loud, twittering cry, and coming around the corner of the house in front of him he saw three birdlike creatures, two adults and a child, huddled together. One of the adults stood up shakily.
“Please,” it said. “Please, you’ve already won. Leave them alone. Take me instead.”
Ja’keth’s vision was tinged with red, the roar of the sulfurous wind in his ears. “No,” he said, and his voice was a deep snarl, hoarse and guttural, “no, not instead.” And with a spin, he brought his axe down diagonally across the presuil’s chest as the others screamed. Then the house next to him exploded, throwing him clear—
—and he found himself awake, panting on the floor by the side of his bed. The window of his room was banging wildly, sheets of rain sweeping through the opening. The door to his room was ajar, and his pack lay open on the ground.
The basket was gone.
Before he could process what had happened, he heard Far’sha crying for him downstairs, and springing to his feet he seized his hand axe and cloak from the table and ran downstairs to find her, wrapped in a blanket, pointing at the door of the inn. It had been broken from its hinges, and kneeling next to it was Ba’leth Farakech, Har’eth’s nephew. The Warden strode over to him and lifted him by the scruff of his neck to a standing position. “What’s going on?” he barked at Ba’leth, who struggled in his grip. “What have you done?”
“It’s my uncle,” Ba’leth howled back. “He broke into the inn—said he needed to see something. I followed him in, and then I heard a banging sound upstairs. Then he ran past me and shoved me into the door.”
“What was he carrying?” Ja’keth growled angrily, teeth bared. “Where was he going? Tell me now, or I’ll do a lot more than push you into a door.”
“I—ow!” Ba’leth wailed. “I don’t know where he was going…he wouldn’t tell me. He was carrying something, but I couldn’t—”
“What was it?” Ja’keth snarled.
“I—ow! A basket—it looked like some kind of basket!”
By the time Far’sha reached Ba’leth’s whimpering body slumped by the door, Ja’keth was already halfway out of Belor’s Reach at a full run. Har’eth could be anywhere, but as Ja’keth sprinted up the path, leaping over fallen trees and seeking purchase in the loose rocks at his feet while the driving rain blinded him, he knew there was only one place he would choose to go now.
Yes, only one place.
It had taken Ja’keth and the other kalocks a little less than half an hour to make their way from the clearing by the edge of the cliff to Belor’s Reach five days ago, but that was at a regular walking pace. Ja’keth was running now, and Wardens were famed for their stamina and speed when tracking a target, tireless and surefooted. Still, he was running on muddy, unstable ground in wind so fierce he could see small stones scattering across his path, and he was pursuing someone even more familiar with the terrain and its contours than he was, with the same ability to see in the dark. So it still took him about twenty minutes to reach his destination, and when he first crested the hill and slowed to a stop his heart sank; he saw no sign of Har’eth, and for a moment he thought he had been wrong. Then the lightning flashed behind him, and a bright burst of light from the opposite edge of the clearing blinded him. Blinking to clear his vision as the clap of thunder rolled across the sky, he saw its source.
Light, reflecting off a blade.
On his knees, only a short distance away from the edge of the cliff, was Har’eth, his fur matted, lifting a long dagger into the air. And below him on the cold stone ground, its basket gone, lay the baby presuil, squirming and flapping its wings uselessly.
“Har’eth!” Ja’keth barked. “Har’eth, stop!” The blade froze for a moment, then began its upward track again. “In the name of the Successor King, I order you to stop!” Ja’keth shouted again as the wind whipped around him. The blade stopped again, and this time Har’eth looked in his direction as another bolt of lightning in the sky illuminated his eyes, wild with hatred.
“The Successor King,” Har’eth cried mockingly as the thunder rolled. “That’s something, Ja’keth, even for you: call on the name of your Emperor when you’ve been committing treason by sheltering his enemies.”
“I’m sorry, Har’eth,” Ja’keth replied, taking a step closer. “I found it here with its mother, and I…well, I don’t know why I took it with me. It seemed like the right thing to do—”
“The right thing?” Har’eth screamed in a rage. “It was the right thing to feed and shelter this filthy vermin in Far’sha’s inn—to bring this excrement to the village where you were raised? To give comfort to a presuil?”
Please, it said. Please, you’ve already won.
“It’s a child, Har’eth, not a warrior,” Ja’keth shouted. “A helpless infant.”
“An infant that will grow into an adult which will kill us if it can, like every one of these Blood-cursed pieces of filth. Which killed—” Har’eth stopped, his speech choked with a sob.
Leave them alone.
“We fight for order, not vengeance,” Ja’keth yelled back. “None of this wi
ll bring Shar’eth or Cy’ril back, Har’eth.”
“You fight for what you will,” Har’eth screamed. “You sell your honor for whatever you want. I swore an oath on their graves, and this fulfills it!”
Take me instead.
Suddenly the presuil called out, the noise piercing, almost agonizing, and crying out in pain Har’eth lifted his dagger again. Then time seemed to slow as Ja’keth drew out his axe and in one smooth motion hurled it towards Har’eth. The dagger was beginning its downward plunge when the axe hit it square, knocking it clear from Har’eth’s hand and sending it plunging over the cliff’s edge with a clatter. Har’eth howled in anger and charged at Ja’keth, who dropped low as Har’eth reached him and undercut his legs, sending him flying over his body in a heap. Ja’keth backed up slowly as Har’eth got to his feet, panting heavily as the rain drove down on him.
“Presuil-loving filth,” he growled. “Blood-cursed cur!” He ran towards Ja’keth again, who without thinking spun away at the last second as his Warden training had taught him. Har’eth threw his arms out but missed, and with no chance to stop himself went flying over the edge with a rapidly fading howl.
Ja’keth scrambled to the edge and looked down into the dark. “Har’eth!” he shouted, but his voice was caught up by the wind which roared in mockery as he sank back. I—I had no time to—I reacted the way a Warden should—
Except he was not fighting an enemy of the Empire. This was his friend Har’eth, and he had killed him.
Suddenly there was another flash of lightning followed by a crash of thunder. But as the thunder died away, Ja’keth heard an odd whirring noise over the sound of the tempest, growing louder by the second—a noise both foreign and strangely familiar. He looked back over the edge. Rising from the void below was a feathered creature, wings flapping strongly against the wind. And in its arms it carried...
Har’eth?
The adult presuil was indeed carrying Har’eth, and Ja’keth watched as it flew over his head and landed softly in the clearing behind him before laying the black-brown kalock’s motionless body on the ground and turning to face him, its massive wings folding smoothly into place behind its back. It cocked its head at him. “Klock caught before the trees,” it said at last in heavily accented kalock. “Not dead.” It looked past Ja’keth, who continued to stare at it in wonder, and caught sight of something next to him. It walked to his side and bent down. Slowly, gently, it lifted the baby presuil, wet and quietly twittering, and gazed into its face, tilting its angular head and trilling back softly. After a moment it looked up at Ja’keth. “This mine…my—cher—chould? Last one.”
Ja’keth swallowed. “Last child?”
The presuil moved its head in what Ja’keth assumed was an approximation of a nod. “Most family killed by klocks months ago, except for mate and our—childs,” it said, still struggling with the word. It stopped, twittering for a moment as if remembering. Lightning flashed in the sky again, but farther off now, and the downpour was lessening. “Escaped, mate and child and me. Flew north, but mate was hurt, couldn’t fly far. Stopped here to rest while I looked for food and way home. Got back and found…mate dead, child gone.” It paused. “Thought I’d stay and die here too.”
“But you didn’t,” Ja’keth said.
“No. Flew everywhere looking for child, found nothing. Suns rose and set. Finally storm came.”
“But why would you catch Har—the kalock?” Ja’keth said. “He wanted to kill your child.”
The presuil twittered quietly. “You klock. Didn’t kill child.” It moved its wings in an odd way, almost a shrug. “Life is life…” It stopped, struggling again. “Life…comes from life. Must come from life. Nothing else. Even klock’s life.”
Ja’keth nodded slowly. “And now?”
“Now we go home.” It turned and walked to the edge of the cliff. After a few steps it stopped and turned, its head cocked. “Why—why klock save child? Klock hate us, yes? Like other klock?”
Ja’keth opened his mouth, then closed it. Before he could try again, the baby presuil lifted its head over its father’s hand and twittered softly. Ja’keth hesitated a moment longer, then shrugged.
“Life is life,” he said.
The presuil held the Warden’s gaze steadily for a long moment, then turned without a word and, spreading its wings wide, sprang from the ground and flew off, illuminated one last time by a fading flash of lightning before vanishing into the gathering darkness.
5
The next morning Far’sha, having finally fallen asleep from exhaustion, woke to find a note on the counter in the downstairs room of the inn.
Far’sha,
On my way back to Edreath—left money upstairs to pay for damage to room. Har’eth is at his home, safe. When he comes to find you, please tell him I tried to help…him and someone else. I’ve never been a wordmaster, but…
Anyway. Life is life. Tell him that.
Sha’nac protect you,
Ja’keth
GREGORY A. WILSON is currently an Associate Professor of English at St. John’s University in New York, where he teaches creative writing and fantasy fiction along with various other courses in literature. He has published on many academic subjects, and his first novel, a work of epic fantasy entitled The Third Sign, was published in 2009. He regularly serves as a panelist at conferences across the country and is a member of Codex, the Writers’ Symposium, and other author groups. He is also the co-host (with fellow speculative fiction author Brad Beaulieu) of Speculate! The Podcast for Writers, Readers and Fans, located at www.speculatesf.com. He lives with his wife Clea, daughter Senavene, and dog Lilo in Riverdale; his virtual home is www.gregoryawilson.com.
THE MAN WITH LOOKING-GLASS EYES
Rosemary Jones
The princess broke the ornate spear across her knee and tossed the pieces out the open window.
“That was the start of a potion,” said the glass swan balancing on the fireplace mantle.
“No, no,” said the brass monkey on the bookcase, “I think it was a direction, a beginning for the path to someplace important.”
“Don’t you remember?” she asked. Her reflection in the darkened glass of the half-open casement made her look ghostly, quite appropriate since she was busy haunting the wizard’s house of memories.
“How can we remember anything?” the swan and the monkey spoke in unison. “We’re only fragments ourselves.”
“More appropriately, we are devices,” said the tortoise at her feet. “Loci. Ars Memorativa.”
“Some of you seem more aware than others,” she said.
“Naturally,” said the tortoise. “We were given voices, to speak at the necessary time, to direct, as it were, the course of the journey. But, even so, we can only indicate the route.”
This was the seventh or the seventeenth room that she had systematically torn apart. Her own memory was necessarily poor in this place, a matter of protection. Somewhere, elsewhere, the princess slept, or so she thought. If she concentrated, she could feel the silken sheets beneath her, hear the subdued murmur of her attendants as they fought to stay awake and keep vigil beside her dreaming body.
The tortoise bumped against her as it began its clumsy, bumbling route across the room toward a previously unnoticed door. The princess followed it. The beast seemed quite willing to guide her through the house. She wondered if its absent master knew that his random creations made such poor guards for his mansion.
She opened the door and found a chamber full of gems. Diamonds and pearls cascaded from open boxes, forming glittering drifts across the parquet floor. Emeralds studded silver ropes that looped from the ceiling. Rubies surrounded a giant mirror that reflected the shimmering treasures.
“What could he have buried here?” she queried the tortoise without hope of a sensible answer. When she had appeared in the long hallway leading to
dozens of rooms, the tortoise roused itself from a nap beneath a potted palm to offer its services as a “locator of lost items and important moments.” Since then, she found its conversation lacked coherence and it rarely held to a straight line in its wanderings.
When pressed, the tortoise claimed that it most certainly did know the shortest route between two points, but such a course might not serve as well as a circular tour through certain rooms.
In this room of wealth, the beast unearthed a small wooden box buried under the diamonds piled upon the floor. The princess snatched it up. The lid popped easily open to reveal a rusted key.
“So, now, what is this for?” she wondered.
“To open a lock,” the tortoise sounded supremely uninterested as it nosed among the diamonds and pearls.
“Not a lock that is open often,” the princess said, lifting the key out and turning it over in her hand. It looked ordinary, something that might fit a padlock or trunk.
“Some locks should not be opened more than once in a lifetime,” said her reflection from across the room.
The princess scowled at the girl in the ruby-rimmed mirror. She looked foolish with her hair cascading down her back and the most ridiculous little crown perched precariously atop the riotous red curls. She resisted the urge to pat the top of her own head to see if the glittering crown was there. Certainly, looking down, she could see that she was dressed in the same impractical blue ballgown and golden slippers.
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