Time's Demon

by D. B. Jackson

  “She frequents these waters,” he said, eyes on the woman. “She answers to Mivszel.”

  The human stared back at him, smiling, taking in his naked form, their silent exchange as opaque to Droë as an unknown language, as fascinating as a thousand riddles.

  “You will find her, tell her I have come to collect,” Qiyed went on. “She will understand.”

  “I don’t.”

  At that he looked her way. “She will,” he said again. “Now, go.”

  She regarded them both, curiosity burning like a bonfire in her chest. But she left them for a nearby bay, where ships lay at anchor. Before long, she spotted what appeared to be a Shonla mist. She raised her voice in song – a ballad that Tresz had enjoyed. Her heart constricted on the thought.

  The mist floated toward the strand where she waited and soon enveloped her, raising bumps on her skin. A dark figure emerged from the cloud’s center.

  “Greetings, cousin,” Droë said. “Are you Mivszel?”

  The Shonla eased closer. “Do I know you?” she asked, her voice syrupy. “You are not familiar. Even your form is strange to me, though I sense that you are an Ancient.”

  Droë’s cheeks burned. “You don’t know me,” she said. “I’m Tirribin, though I don’t look it. I journey with a Most Ancient One. Qiyed. He sent me to settle commerce with you. A matter of a boon.”

  A long pause, and then, “You are his friend?”

  “I journey with him.”

  “Also commerce?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am sorry for you.”

  A turn before, Droë would have asked what she meant. She no longer had to. “I am to collect… something.”

  “I do not wish to pay. Could you… could you tell him you did not find me?”

  Droë didn’t answer. She didn’t have to; they were both Ancients.

  The Shonla made a strange noise. It took Droë a moment to realize that she wept.

  “What is it he wants of you?” she asked, her voice hushed.

  “It does not matter,” the Shonla said. “Forgive me. I should not have asked what I did.” She paused, glanced over her shoulder toward the bay. “Tell him… tell him I shall do his bidding.”

  “But–” Droë shook her head, unsure of what to say. Sorrow for the Shonla flooded her.

  “He uses me to wreak vengeance on a human who wronged him, a minor noble in the north. I am to… to linger at the wharves of this human’s house for five centuries, to choke off trade in his port, denying riches to his family and heirs.”

  “Five centuries?” Droë whispered.

  “Just so. I can no longer journey in search of fear and song.”

  “How can he make you do that?”

  A chuff of dry laughter escaped the Ancient. “I bargained carelessly. Beware the Arrokad, cousin. He cannot be trusted.”

  This Droë already knew. “I’m sorry. Had I known…”

  “If you journey with him, you cannot defy him. We have that in common.”

  She wondered if this was true, but kept the thought to herself. Instead, she raised her voice in song again, completing the ballad with which she had summoned Mivszel. When she finished she bowed to the Shonla.

  “Thank you. I will hold to the memory of that song. And perhaps, if ever you are on the isle of Djaiste, you will come to the human city on its southwestern shore and sing for me again.”

  “I will,” Droë said. “I give you my word.”

  The Shonla bowed in turn, before cloaking herself in her mists and floating out over the bay. Droë stared after her until she vanished from view. Then she returned to the strand where she had left Qiyed.

  The Arrokad was alone when she found him, languid and far too pleased with himself. “You found the Shonla?”

  “Yes,” she said, resentment shadowing the word.

  Qiyed considered her through narrowed eyes, but said nothing. He signaled for her to climb onto his back once more, and they returned to the water.

  Days later, on a wooded cliff on Kisira, overlooking the Inward Sea, Qiyed attended a guild gathering with other Arrokad, several Tirribin and Belvora, and a pair of Shonla. Before the gathering, he asked Droë about Tirribin customs, about the nature of their time sense and their hunger for years. She answered grudgingly, reluctant to betray her sept, but Qiyed pressed her.

  “I seek a bargain with the Tirribin and Shonla on this isle,” he said. “I merely intend to use the needs of your sept as a cudgel against the creatures of mist. The Tirribin will benefit, as will I. If any suffer, it will be the Shonla, and even they will get most of what they want.”

  “I do not like betraying other Ancients. I didn’t like it when you sent me to finish your commerce with the Shonla on Vleros, and I don’t like this.”

  “I do not care,” Qiyed said. “We have our own commerce, you and I. Freely entered, fairly sworn. You will do as I ask.”

  Fond memories of Tresz and sympathy for Mivszel thickened her throat and brought a dull ache to her chest. Still, she told him what he wished to know, hating herself as she did.

  She didn’t join him at the gathering, or even hide from view in the adjacent wood. The other Ancients would have sensed her, and Qiyed seemed reluctant to let his kind see what he had done to her. She tucked this information away, believing it might serve her in the future.

  While he negotiated, she hunted. When he had finished and was ready to return to the sea, he summoned her and she joined him. Dutiful, meek, seething within. Less than a turn had passed since he granted her access to desire, but it felt like years. It was odd for her – a creature of time, alive for centuries – to chafe so after such a short interval.

  With the maturing of her body, though, had come a deeper understanding of herself, her needs, her mind. Time sense and feeding on years were but part of what it meant to be Tirribin. Wisdom, strength, obsession with social niceties, insatiable curiosity, childlike infatuation with nearly all that caught her interest – these were elements of her being, and qualities she recognized in others of her kind.

  Not all of them had survived the changes she and Qiyed had imposed upon her form. She had grown less inquisitive, less prone to the sort of compulsions she had seen most recently in Kreeva and Strie. An irony. The very forces that compelled her to seek her transformation had abated with its completion. She cared less about rudeness in others. She did comment on Qiyed’s discourtesies, but more to mask her antipathy for him than out of resentment of his poor behavior.

  On the other hand, she sensed her mind expanding in ways both subtle and unexpected. Understanding desire in its purest form allowed her to see in others, and in herself, the effects of need, of want, of greed and lust and hunger in all their incarnations. She observed and listened, and was amazed by the world that opened before her. Human behavior she had found confounding in her child form now made sense to her. For all the kinship she had once felt with Arrokad, she now realized that in many respects Qiyed and his kind had less in common with most Tirribin – and Shonla – than they did with humans. The Most Ancient Ones would have been loath to admit this.

  Droë also continued to wonder at her new-found physical prowess. As she grew accustomed to this new body, she discovered that she could still blur to Tirribin speed. She was larger, of course, heavier, and so perhaps not quite as nimble as she had been in her girl form. But her strength… Gods, never had she been so powerful. The largest, healthiest, most muscular humans on whom she preyed had no chance against her. She might even have been a match for Qiyed’s strength, though he possessed magicks and abilities that kept her from testing this.

  Qiyed still treated her as he had when she was small. His condescension seeped into every conversation. He thought her a naif, and in some ways she remained one. Long after he and the human woman from Vleros parted, he continued to speak of their time together in the most explicit terms. Droë could do nothing about the heat that spread across her face, down her neck, over her chest as he described the intri
cacies of their coupling. Embarrassment warred with fascination. She bit her tongue to keep from asking questions.

  She knew he sensed and enjoyed her discomfort, just as she knew that he meant to wound with the various slights he inflicted upon her throughout their days together. Arrokad were known for their arrogance and capriciousness. She believed him worse than most.

  These small abuses gave her an excuse to withdraw from him, to shield her thoughts and emotions, to the extent that she could against a creature of his power. Let him believe the distance she imposed between them was born of pique and shame. Perhaps this would keep him from realizing that she searched for some way to break his hold on her and, if possible, to break him in the process.

  Try as she might, Droë could not conceal her impatience to find the Walker. She often asked what he had learned about Tobias and the woman voyaging with him. On those occasions when he responded at all, his answers were vague and unsatisfying.

  “Where are they?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Where were they headed when last you heard?”

  “West, I believe, though I would imagine they have changed course since then.”

  “West of where?”

  “Kheraya’s Ocean.”

  Sometimes, when she grew too insistent, he stopped answering at all, leaving her shaking with rage. More often she gave up, knowing he would tell her nothing of value.

  One night, nearly a qua’turn removed from the gathering of the Guild, Droë’s patience ran out. She pestered him, asking one question after another. Long after he stopped answering, she persisted, going so far as to repeat questions she had posed earlier.

  She clung to his back as they raced over swells in the Inward Sea between Qyrshen and Aiyanth. The night was warm. Lightning flickered in the east, the answering thunder barely audible, even to her ears. She had savored such nights since commencing her journeys with the Arrokad. Wind rushed through her hair and salty spray cooled her skin. When they bounced over the higher swells, she couldn’t help but laugh aloud.

  Even so, thoughts of the Walker consumed her. She wouldn’t have admitted this to Qiyed – though she expected he knew – but she hungered for physical contact with a human, or even an Arrokad. Not him. Never him. But someone.

  She fired questions at him, undeterred by his terse responses and then his stony silence.

  “Those who told you about the Walkers – where did they encounter them?” Pause. “Who was it told you of them?” Silence. “Are they on a ship? On land? Are they alone, or are they journeying with others? Have they Walked through time again? Are they trying to repair the misfuture? Were those who told you about them friends of the Walkers? Were they looking for them, too? Or was this a coincidence? How long ago did they–”

  “Enough!”

  He stopped swimming. She maintained her hold on him, her arms crooked loosely around his neck.

  “I tire of your incessant questions!”

  “I didn’t think you were listening,” she said, her tone mild. “You didn’t do me the courtesy of replying.”

  “I have no wish to speak of these matters now, and no intention of telling you what you wish to know. My silence should have told you this. You will remain quiet for the rest of this night. Ask me nothing more. Do you understand?”

  “No.”

  He pushed her arms off him and kicked away from her, forcing her to swim in place. Droë tried to conceal her panic. She could swim and keep herself afloat for a time, but they were leagues from the nearest shore. And Tirribin could not blur to speed in water. She would drown before she reached land.

  “You defy me?”

  “I do,” she said, pleased by the evenness of her voice.

  He dove, gave a single, mighty undulating kick. When he surfaced, he had put much distance between them.

  “I can leave you here, swim on without you. I doubt you would survive. I would, on pain of Distraint, forbid any other Ancient from helping you. Is that what you want?”

  “You know it isn’t.” Already her arms and legs had started to tire. She didn’t know how long she could keep herself above the swells. She had swum in harbors and bays. Never before had she contended with the open sea.

  “I sense your fear,” he said.

  He flashed a malevolent smile. In the next instant, a ridge of inky water concealed him from her.

  “And I sense your annoyance,” she called. “Who knew one of the Most Ancient would be so easy to goad?”

  “Are you trying to provoke me?”

  She tipped onto her back and tried floating that way. She remembered it being easier. A swell swept over her, filling her mouth and nose with water. She sputtered, righted herself, went back to treading.

  “It seems I don’t have to try. I need only ask a few questions.”

  “I will leave you, Droë.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  She caught sight of him. He looked furious still, but remained where he was, floating in the brine, as at home in the water as a seal.

  “You expended a good deal of magick to transform me, and you’ve made clear your intention to put me to use on your behalf. You’ve already done so. You have no more desire to leave me here than I have to be left. So come back here, let me hold on to you, and we’ll continue our voyage.”

  “No more questions?”

  “I want to know about the Walker. I want to find him.”

  “And we will,” Qiyed said, ire shading his tone again. “When I decide it.”

  “When will that be?”

  “We have been together for less than a turn.” A low growl underlay the words, something akin to her own rasp. She had pushed him far.

  “A turn is a long time.”

  “To a human, perhaps. Not to our kind. We have all the time we could want.”

  “The Walker is human. His time passes quickly. In just a short while, by our reckoning, he’ll grow feeble and die.”

  Qiyed shrugged in the moonlight, rippling the water around him. “I do not care. Again and again you have bargained poorly, driven by haste, impatience, your lack of discipline. We will find the Walker. That is what I promised. That is all I promised.”

  Droë glared, unable to mask her hatred. He would know it for what it was, would be more leery of her. Perhaps he would treat her with more courtesy, but she doubted it. More likely, he would take greater pains to convince her that his control over her was absolute.

  “Are you ready to continue?” he asked. “In silence?”

  Her arms felt leaden. Her legs ached. She wished she had never thought to change herself. She wished she had never met this Arrokad.

  The wishes of a child. Maybe you haven’t matured as much as you believe.

  Another swell passed, hiding him and revealing him again. “Yes,” she said. “I’m ready.”

  He smiled, too smug, too eager to mock her. If she could have killed him in that moment, she would have.

  Qiyed kicked once. In the span of a breath he was beside her, damp, dark hair swept back from his chiseled face, starlight shining in the serpentine eyes.

  “I have been kind to you,” he whispered. “You think me cruel, but have I hurt you? Have I forced you to submit to me? Have I used your desire – and my access to it – to coerce you?” He didn’t wait for her response. “I have not. And I can, Droënalka. Never doubt that I can. Defy me again, disobey me again, and you will discover precisely how cruel I can be.”

  He allowed her to climb again onto his back. She crossed her arms around his neck. It was a measure of how much she had come to hate him that she seriously considered snapping his neck, though it would mean her death as well. And perhaps it was a measure of his own surety that he didn’t hesitate to turn his back on her.

  A tencount later, they were gliding over the swells again. Now, though, she took no pleasure in the rise and fall, in the spray and wind.

  She resolved to avoid provoking the Arrokad. And succeeded for a single day. That was how
long it took her to realize that provoking him was the smartest thing she could do.

  Already she had noted the similarities between Qiyed and the humans she knew. Now it occurred to her to exploit his most human tendencies. She recognized the perils of such a course. She didn’t care. His hold on her was too infuriating, too humiliating. Better to be dead and free, if it came to that.

  They reached a strand in the Labyrinth, where Qiyed found another lover: a young man with dark eyes and smooth skin the color of whiskey.

  She left them to hunt on the town wharves. Even after she fed, however, even after she had given Qiyed ample time to complete his tryst, she lingered near the docks. She knew he would grow impatient. That was her intention. She knew as well that he would refuse to search for her. To do so would be to acknowledge in the smallest way that she had influence over him.

  By the time she returned to the strand, three bells had passed. A trifle in the lives of Arrokad and Tirribin, but enough to nettle Qiyed.

  “Where have you been?”

  “Hunting, of course. Did you enjoy your human?”

  “I finished with him nearly two bells ago. I expected you then.”

  She glanced around. “He did survive the encounter, I hope. He was pretty.”

  “Yes, he is well! Where were you?”

  “I told you–”

  “You were hunting. That has never taken you so long.” “Were you concerned for my wellbeing? Did you think some human had overpowered–”

  A blow high on her cheek knocked her to the sand. Qiyed hadn’t moved to cover the distance between them. Magick, as she’d hoped. She masked her satisfaction by focusing on the pain, which was all too real.

  She glowered up at him. “Why did you do that?”

  “Do not think to toy with me. You may resemble a human adult, but you are nothing more than a child next to me.”

  He lashed at her again with his power. Another blow, this one to the temple. She collapsed again, white points of light swimming before her.

  Qiyed started toward the sea. “Get up. I am ready to leave this place.”

  She dragged herself to her feet, pain pulsing in her head. She wondered if she was mad to pursue this course.