Ilgrin flared his wings and landed in the centre of a field. A startled cow mooed and galloped away. Ilgrin laughed and slid a hand through his dark blue mop of hair before a stab of loneliness drove him to examine his fingers. They were longer and thinner than those of a human and lacked nails. The colour was wrong, too, Ilgrin’s flesh being mostly white, with touches of pale blue. His face was angular, with cheekbones higher than those of most humans and eyes that tilted up at the sides. His skeletal structure was longer and thinner, but his bones were covered in so many layers of lean muscle that the end result was a much larger figure. In strength, Ilgrin had equalled his father by the age of ten and soon thereafter surpassed him. A few years later, he’d matched the man in height. Now at twenty-one years of age, Ilgrin towered over the human.
Ilgrin looked at his toes disapprovingly. His feet were no greater than half the length of an ordinary man’s and bore only three toes, one of which extended posteriorly. Such an arrangement was handy for perching in trees or carrying things in flight.
Ilgrin turned his large purple eyes toward the inviting blue sky. He was unable to fly--not the way he wanted to, anyway. To do so would be suicide. The constant threat of discovery kept him from ascending any higher than the treetops. Ilgrin was a prisoner. He looked at the family home with the same reluctant familiarity that a convict might have for his cell. Beside the building was a tree stump whose presence sent shivers down Ilgrin’s spine. It was the place where his mother had died and where he, in turn, had resurrected her.
Ilgrin took another moment to count the ways in which he differed from his parents. He often caught himself doing so. Perhaps it served as a reminder that he was indeed different, as despite appearances at times he could all but forget he wasn’t human. Or perhaps he did it to remember why he must remain hidden. But no matter how he suppressed it, Ilgrin knew that at the heart of the ritual, its reasons were to remind him that somewhere out there were others like him.
Ilgrin pushed off from the ground and flew lazily toward the house where raised voices caused him to hesitate, hand hovering over the doorknob. His parents were arguing, not an uncommon occurrence. There was a solitary step beneath the door upon which Baen had found Ilgrin as a newborn, blue-faced and screaming in his dead mother’s arms. She’d been shot through the heart by a silver-tipped arrow and in death the only evidence that remained of her existence was an unmarked stone at the back of the farthest paddock.
Not a day went by that Ilgrin didn’t feel bitterly resentful of a life slowly wasted in hiding. It wasn’t fair that everyone should hate him because of the actions of silts elsewhere. He had nothing to do with them. He’d never even met one. The world so hated silts for what they’d done and even Ilgrin was no stranger to the wickedness produced through demon hands. Although Ilgrin himself was guilty of whisp pollution, surely it could be forgiven him considering his age at the time. A child so young couldn’t possibly fathom the implications of such an action.
The whisp may have dissipated as some were known to do. Or it may have slaughtered an entire family. Was Ilgrin a hero or a murderer? Such was the price of resurrection. Someone somewhere would’ve had to die in place of his mother. Ilgrin often struggled with his conscience, his imagination conjuring up images of strangers at a funeral in some distant land.
He turned the doorknob and stepped inside. Urelie was in her rocking chair, knitting needles clicking furiously over an ugly green shirt created with wing-holes and buttons in the back. Baen stood warming his hands over the fireplace. Neither of them noticed Ilgrin’s presence.
‘I understand what you’re saying, but he can’t stay here forever,’ Baen said. ‘Someday soon he’ll be too big for this farm. He’ll need to spread his wings . . . so to speak. He’s not a little boy anymore.’
‘Don’t you think I know that?’ Urelie replied through gritted teeth. ‘But what do you suggest we do, package him off to Old World? They won’t take him in? They’re demons, for Maker’s sake. They’ll probably eat him or something.’
‘Don’t call them that,’ Ilgrin snapped, revealing himself.
Urelie jumped in surprise. ‘I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean anything.’
‘Yes, you did,’ Ilgrin accused. ‘You meant exactly what you said. You think we’re all a bunch of . . . of demons,’ he spat the final word, hating the feel of it on his tongue.
‘Not you, dear,’ Urelie put down her needles and hurried over to squeeze Ilgrin’s hands. ‘You’re different, my sweet boy. We raised you with morals and values. We raised you to be--’
‘Human?’ Ilgrin cut her off and pulled his hands free. Urelie paled and jerked away, turning her face as though expecting to be struck. ‘What’re you doing?’ Ilgrin gasped.
‘Nothing.’ Urelie put a hand over her mouth and tried to scurry away, but Ilgrin snatched at her wrist and spun her around.
‘You flinched,’ he said defensively.
‘That’s enough, boy.’ Baen put a hand flat against Ilgrin’s chest.
Ilgrin ignored the man and focused on his mother. ‘You’re scared of me? I thought you said I was different, that I wasn’t like the others.’
‘You are, darling.’ Beads of sweat formed on Urelie’s flushed face. ‘I trust you with my life. It’s just that . . . you know.’
‘What?’
‘You’ve truly grown up these last few years.’ She swallowed noisily. ‘You’re a man now and you look like . . . like one of them.’
‘You mean you can’t just pretend I’m a human with wings anymore?’ Ilgrin asked bitterly. ‘If my own mother can’t accept me as I am, then who the torrid will?’
‘I said no such thing,’ Urelie scurried on in Ilgrin’s wake as he stormed back toward the door.
‘I’m going out.’ Ilgrin slid his feet into makeshift shoes his mother had made him. They looked ridiculous, almost as long in the back as they were in the front to allow space for his third toe. He folded his wings and shoved his arms through coat sleeves, pulled up the hood, and put on a pair of black leather gloves. The mirror revealed nothing. He was obscured but for a pale-faced outlined within dark cloth. Not much could be done about his height, so he hunched over, which assisted in the illusion of his wings being an abnormal growth. The disguise wouldn’t stand up against intelligent scrutiny, but it served its purpose well enough for small outings into the more isolated parts of the city.
‘Stop him,’ Urelie pleaded of her husband. ‘He can’t go alone.’
Baen stared at Ilgrin before responding. ‘Be back before dark.’
‘No!’ Urelie wailed. ‘He’s gotten too tall. He’ll be discovered.’
‘We cannot keep him a prisoner forever!’ Baen thundered. He was the kind of man that reserved raising his voice for those occasions when no one would dare to question his decision thereafter. ‘We won’t be around forever,’ he continued more quietly. ‘The boy must learn to survive on his own.’
Ilgrin stepped outside and shut the door against his mother’s distressed pleas. He crossed the property quickly, fearing at any moment she would rush after him. He was only able to breathe once he’d made it to the dirt road to the city.
Sitnic had no walls or towers. There was no need for such defences. No one would attack the people of Abnatol any more than they would attack Egsean or Brin. The three countries had been allies far longer than the most ancient records were able to determine, and at their core they believed in peace to all mankind. The taking of a life was so deplorable to the people of Abnatol that anyone found guilty of doing so was exiled forever.
Ilgrin spent several hours meandering through the city lost in thought. Although he enjoyed the company of others, he was always careful to keep his distance. The apparent growth on his back made the task easier, as people had the tendency of steering clear of disease.
It wasn’t until the sun began to set that Ilgrin realised how late it’d become and that he should have already headed home. He dawdled south, reluctant to return only to sit in his room and l
isten to his parents fight.
The early hours of the evening were always quiet, so when a piercing scream sliced the silence, Ilgrin stopped moving and turned toward the sound. The scream was repeated, loud and sharp like that of a child. The third was accompanied by a deafening roar so powerful that it rattled the air. The screams were cut off to be replaced by others as a crowd of people spewed out onto the street ahead, all of them running toward Ilgrin. For a moment, he feared it was him they were after, but his concerns were immediately eased.
‘Run,’ a man called out as he shot past.
‘What in Maker’s name?’ Ilgrin’s jaw dropped when a creature resembling the offspring of a giant bird and the mythical dragon of children’s books swooped over the road. It shrieked so loudly that Ilgrin was forced to cover his ears and wince in pain. The gigantic creature swept back and forth snatching up its quarry and tearing them apart. It did not discriminate, killing men, women, and even children.
‘Watch out!’ someone shouted as the better runners started passing by.
Ilgrin stumbled back a few steps before turning to run with the crowd. He charged on, but was soon lost in the congestion as the humans surged ahead, their legs and feet far better designed for running than his. Ilgrin soon found himself at the back with the stragglers as they were picked off one by one.
An old lady cried out as she was dragged into air, churning to the beat of the creature’s feathery wings. A spray of blood told Ilgrin of her death. He crouched low when the wings returned. A hobbling simpleton was whisked away for slaughter. Ilgrin followed the boy with his eyes until he was torn apart far above. His innards rained down to decorate the road. For a moment, Ilgrin wondered if he should reveal his identity to escape, but refused to take the risk until he had absolutely no other option. Once the truth was out, there would be no way of getting it back.
The creature swooped and Ilgrin threw himself to the road as beating wings and grasping claws past overhead. The creature banked and swooped a second time, landed heavily, and made its way forward with golden eyes fixed on Ilgrin. He clung to his coat, beneath which his heart beat furiously in preparation to tear it off.
‘My daughter!’ a woman screamed, her bare feet sending up plumes of dust as she charged over, armed with a shovel. ‘Mary!’
The beast turned to confront the sound, plucked the woman from the roadside, and tossed her into the air as though she were weightless. Ilgrin watched the fear of death fill her eyes as she screamed. He could save her. He could leap into the sky and snatch her to safety. But he didn’t. Ilgrin remained frozen, fear rooting his feet to the earth. The woman hit the road, her body twisting and splitting on impact. With her death the creature lost all interest in the woman. It killed for pleasure rather than sustenance.
The creature returned its attention to the fleeing crowd and beat its wings in pursuit, once again attracted by the frenzied humans. Mercifully, Ilgrin had been forgotten. The unknown woman had inadvertently saved his life.
The creature reached the crowd and picked out a young man, but as soon as it did so, it vanished. The man was flipped over and landed on his back, but was able to climb unsteadily to his feet. Ilgrin shielded his eyes and squinted into the distance in time to see something tiny flit out of the crowd and disappear around the side of a building. The creature hadn’t vanished. It had shrunk.
Curiosity gave Ilgrin the strength to push through his shock and continue down the street. There he discovered the place where the destruction had come to an end. People sobbed and prayed, but many had wounds that couldn’t be stopped in time. Onlookers began to gather. Some gave a hand. Others simply watched, shocked to the point of inactivity.
It was then that Ilgrin noticed him, an old man in foreign clothing making his way through the crowd, touching people on the shoulder or otherwise gesticulating at them. He stared in open curiosity, but a moment later the man turned sharply in his direction with eyes so penetrating that they stole Ilgrin’s breath.
‘Elglair.’ The word rattled out in recognition of the white pupils. Ilgrin backed into the crowd and was relieved to see the stranger return his attention to the situation at hand.
Disturbed by such a close encounter, Ilgrin took another step back without paying attention to the placement of his foot. His toe got caught in a dead man’s shirt and when he tried to leap away he fell off balance. Instinct took over and just for a second his wing flicked out to assist in stabilisation. He carefully removed his foot and glanced about, fearful of anyone having noticed. Surely with such chaos surrounding them, nobody would have been watching the disfigured giant in a hood.
Ilgrin pulled his coat tight against the wind. Most people were busy with the wounded, but one man stared, pale-faced and shaking all over. He turned and ran away, quickly vanishing into the milling crowd.
CHAPTER SEVEN
NO MORE HIDING
The Inner Circle: The Knowing Page 16