by Ellias Quinn
“Khelya, Dask,” Matil said breathlessly. “We need to go…” She looked at the parchment. “To Icto Lan!”
“Hold on, what?” Dask said.
She waved the parchment at them. “I realized something about the list.” She explained her trail of logic, watching their faces to make sure she wasn’t just seeing things that weren’t there.
By the end of it, Khelya looked thrilled. “Dyndal’s sign,” she said.
“Sounds like it,” Dask said, scratching his sideburn with his thumb. “Where’s Icto Lan?”
“In northern Tyrlis. It’s one of the Sangriga universities.”
He blew out through his mouth. “Nearsighted book-worshipers. And they’re Sangriga! The Ranycht universities are scary enough.”
The three of them moved back and forth between Hasyl’s home and the beetles, salvaging more fresh food and herbs. Finally, Matil stood outside with Dask, putting away the last of it.
“Is Khelya still in there?” Dask said.
“I’ll look.” Matil entered the little hut and wandered down the tunnel. “Khelya?” She stepped through the clawed-up door. “Khelya?”
It took a moment for Matil to find the see-through Obrigi blending in among all of Hasyl’s devices. With delicate hands, Khelya was examining the ropes that hung from the ceiling. She tugged on one rope, but nothing happened.
“Oh!” She took two other ropes and pulled those at the same time. One of the rooftop flaps smacked shut. Khelya beamed. “Just wouldn’t do, leavin’ this place open to the elements,” she said. “Help me with the rest, ‘kay?”
Khelya told Matil which ropes to pull, and they closed the remaining three flaps. Matil led Khelya by the hand through the now-dark maze of debris and then the storage tunnel, up into the hut. In the clearing outside, Dask was securing buckles and knots on Olnar.
Matil looked over Dewdrop, climbed onto the saddle, and set her feet in the stirrups. “Ready to go?”
Khelya lifted and put down one knee and then the other, preparing to walk. “Ready.”
“Wait.” Dask squinted and held a hand by his forehead to block the low light that reached the forest floor. “You know those Skorgon we dropped?”
“What about ‘em?” Khelya said.
“Something’s…happening to them.”
Matil reluctantly dismounted and drew her dagger as Dask already had. The three of them edged across the clearing to see the bodies.
“What’re they doin’?” Khelya said when she was close enough.
“Whatever it is,” Dask said, “it’s not normal.”
The Skorgon’s lifeless bodies were changing. The moth-like Skorgon that died first had been larger in life, but was clearly smaller than its ant-like comrade now. Its long antennae were simply gone, as were its hands and its legs up to the knees. The ant Skorgon had just begun to lose the tips of its spiny feet. A small cloud of dust surrounded both corpses, though on closer inspection, the dust came from the bodies themselves. They were crumbling, tiny bits floating down into the earth. A stale smell invaded the fresh air as the two dead Skorgon withered before Matil’s eyes.
* * *
Together with his scouting force and their unconscious prisoner, Crell had returned to their base in northern Nychtfal, hidden in a network of caves. Nychta spent most of her days summoning more Skorgon with the Book, but she didn’t think that their army was strong enough to stay out in the open.
The soldiers reported seven missing – larger scouting groups checked those locations but found nothing – and two other soldiers were witnessed to have been killed by a rat. The missing ones had probably died in similar ways. The Book’s Skorgon didn’t seem to share the Kyndelin protection from wild beasts that other alva took for granted. Crell had seen it happen right in front of him; a songbird descended on a lone Skorgon, held it down with its talons, and pecked the alva to death before flying away. When such things occurred, the other Skorgon showed no emotion at all. They would say, if they said anything about it, “That fate will not be mine, General.”
Crell leaned against a rocky chamber’s entrance, keeping watch on their prisoner. He wasn’t afraid to go in…just understandably cautious. A badger three times his size that might wake up at any moment was best left to the four muscular Skorgon who stood by. Each of them had four arms, and two of them held ropes looped around the badger’s neck and limbs.
The badger stirred, his head stripes muddied by blood. As he opened his eyes, his body shrank and transformed smoothly into an alva now only twice Crell’s size, wearing a simple robe of brown cloth. The two Skorgon pulled on the ropes to tighten them around the groaning Kyndelin. Hasyl, the Book called him. Hasyl was heavily built and had big hands, a big nose, and small, round ears. On one side, his thin, white hair was matted with blood.
“Let me up, if you please,” Hasyl said, blinking at Crell and the Skorgon guards. “I’d appreciate an opportunity to whip the lot of you.” He struggled to his knees.
Crell stepped into the chamber. “Where did you hide it?”
Hasyl’s expression was blank. “What?”
“Dyndal’s velanach.” He hoped he was pronouncing it correctly. Nychta had told him about the object this hermit supposedly had. According to the Book, it would bring the Elder Dyndal back to life. Having it under their control would be a huge advantage.
“Now, now, now,” said Hasyl. “You interrupted my reading and bopped me on the head to ask about a children’s rhyme?”
“We’re going to hurt you if you don’t talk,” Crell said. “Pretending you don’t know won’t change anything. So please…please talk.”
The Kyndelin tilted his head at those last words.
Crell narrowed his eyes. “Where is it?” He felt a twinge by his ears, so he reached up to scratch.
“May I tell you a story?” Hasyl said.
He hesitated. “What are you talking about? I asked you a question. Answer it!”
“My answer is that I will never tell you where it is. Now answer my question. May I?”
Crell wanted to be upset for what seemed like flippancy, but there was no trace of humor in the old man’s eyes. Maybe the story would provide some information. What did he have to lose by hearing the hermit out? “Make it fast.” He sat down against the dirt wall.
Hasyl nodded gratefully. “In the Age of Elders, that age long past,” he said, “lived a poor, widowed miner and his daughter. Though the miner mined all day to provide for their needs, he worked also at night making baskets to pay for the whatnots and trifles his daughter desired. She was his heart, his dearest one. So it was that whenever she fought her playfellows or demanded a gift, the miner took her side. Yet despite his indulgence, the girl found fault with him at every turn.”
The story seemed pointless, though Crell had no urge to stop Hasyl. It reminded him of hours spent listening to the old village men talk. Their tales had been the only good parts of that time without Nychta.
“One day,” Hasyl said. He paused to itch his jaw on his shoulder. “One day, the miner traveled through the woods on his way to market, with baskets stacked high on his back. He heard a desperate cry and searched for the source. The voice came from a close-by pond. There in the water was a man thrashing and splashing so the pond looked like a boiling cauldron. The miner took off his basket stack and put two in the water, climbing into one. With the other basket in hand, he paddled over to the man. That basket helped the man float, so the two got to the side and out of the water.
“Now this man, even drenched like a half-drowned squirrel, was clearly someone special. His shoulders were broad, his skin a ruddy brown, and his ears forward-pointing like those of a Brandur, though he was no Brandur. After staring for a short time, the miner saw that the man had become dry. The miner asked if he was an Elder, and the man laughed. ‘Well met,’ he said, ‘and great thanks for saving me. I a
m Elder Vogyn. My domain is warmth, which that pool leeched from me most audaciously. Allow me to repay you, sir. Request anything within reason.’
“The miner was pleased and wanted time to think about what to request, so he invited the Elder into his home for a meal. They set off together, arrived at home, and for once the miner and his daughter ate a meal that didn’t grow cold. At last the miner asked his daughter what she wanted.
“‘I want a different father,’ said she. ‘One who doesn’t bring home smelly strangers.’
“The miner was appalled and said, ‘You don’t mean what you say. Do you know that this stranger is an Elder and will grant us a wish? What do you really want?’
“His identity surprised the girl. She thought for but a moment before saying, ‘I want lots of money.’
“The miner asked the Elder to grant her request, so Vogyn pulled from his jacket a coin pouch as large as his head and left it on the table. When he was gone, happiness entered the miner’s heart. He told his daughter of the wonderful things they could now buy. A new door, a new roof, maybe even a shop in the city.
“‘I made the wish,’ said his daughter. ‘It’s my money. I’ll use it for what I want.’
“A week later, the miner made baskets amid piles of the finest clothes. But all that the girl bought wore out in time, and she took the remaining wealth with her to the city. The miner assumed that she would come back someday, but though he waited,” Hasyl lifted his head with an air of finality, “his daughter never returned.”
The Skorgon stood unmoved like they hadn’t heard a thing.
“That was a terrible story,” Crell said.
Hasyl sighed. “It was, wasn’t it?”
Crell felt bad for the poor old man stuck telling stories to his captor. Seeing the patient Skorgon on either side of Hasyl, wielding spiked instruments of torture, he also felt sick—no, no, he didn’t. He was just going to oversee the Skorgon, anyway, while they did the dirty work. He’d get the information. Or else disappoint Nychta. He got up from the ground.
The Kyndelin’s expression changed. “Agh, what is that—” He sniffed the air. “Busar-noa! This place smells like tortoise egg soup and rabbit sweat. Can’t I be tortured elsewhere?”
Crell inhaled. “I don’t smell anything.”
Hasyl sniffed again, his wide nostrils flaring larger. “It’s magic I’m smelling, that’s why. And not only magic, but sorcery.”
They could talk for a little longer, Crell supposed. He wasn’t ready to hear screams yet. “Sorcery?”
“Someone around here got hold of Myrkhar’s little sketchbook, eh? Wouldn’t surprise me, what with all these Skorgon clicking their heels and reeking of death.” He wrinkled his nose.
Crell’s eyes flicked from one blank Skorgon to the other, and he held a hand over his heart in the old protective gesture. “They smell like death?”
“Where do you think they come from?” Hasyl shook his head. “You know the tales. Long time ago, an army of Skorgon sold themselves to Myrkhar. Then he found a way to make it so they wouldn’t fully die. I wager they swarm back willingly enough from that wilderness place…from Rubetha.”
Crell let his hand fall to his side. He didn’t want to learn any more about sorcery. It would just make his work more difficult. “Why did you tell me that story?”
Hasyl opened his mouth in a silent ‘ah’. “I meant to elaborate. Forgive my mind. It’s had one century too many. Let’s see…I wanted to stall this unpleasant business,” he said dryly, “same as you. However, that is not all. I ask you, did the miner love his daughter?”
Crell frowned and thought back to the tale. “She didn’t deserve it,” he said, “but he loved her very much.”
The skin around Hasyl’s dark eyes crinkled with a melancholy smile. “No. He felt affection for her. Devotion. Not love.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Love is action and decision. Wanting what’s best for someone and, if you can, helping them to achieve it. If you follow the feelings called love, you may end up doing hateful things to an alva.”
Crell snorted with derision. “What are you talking about? You can’t love without feelings.”
“Feelings are important, cub,” Hasyl said gently, “but they’re as flighty as the wind. Reason first, and then feel.”
Feelings had kept Crell alive and given him purpose. He knew them better than some old hermit did.
“Crell,” came a measured voice. “You haven’t started yet.”
His heart jolted. “Nychta,” he said. “I, um, I’ve been questioning the hermit.” He turned and saw her in the doorway, small and calm, with an imposing edge to her bearing. He wanted to smile – but it wasn’t appropriate at the moment. He wanted to bow – but it was too strange between old friends. He reminded himself that she was the same Nychta he had always known. The same with some exceptions, admittedly, marked by her new eyes. Her purple eyes used to be warm. Now they shone icily, drained of richness in contrast to her chestnut brown skin. At least they were never sad anymore.
She glanced at Hasyl. “The Book says we won’t get anything out of him until his will is weakened. When you think he’s had enough, tell a Skorgon to come get me.”
Crell nodded firmly.
“Did you hear me, hermit?” Nychta said. “Give us the information right away and I won’t need to set the Book loose in your head.”
Hasyl stared at her, stony-faced. She scowled back.
“How…how is the summoning going?” said Crell.
Nychta blinked at him. “It’s going. The weak Skorgon were much easier to summon than these ones, but in the end we’ll have the most powerful army in Eventyr.”
“Ah, okay,” Crell said. “That’s good.”
“Act more like a general,” she said in distaste. “What don’t you get about the word ‘army’?” With that, she left the room.
Crell imagined beating himself over the head with a rock. Why had he acted like a flightling? General Crell, General Crell. He was a general now. He looked at Hasyl, who wore a faint grimace, and said, “You talked a lot earlier. Why are you so quiet now?”
“I’m trying not to breathe in,” Hasyl said. “The smell when she walked through the door—” He rolled out his tongue and made a gagging noise. “She’s the Book-bearer, all right.”
As a general should, Crell resolved himself to his task, but he wanted to finish the strange conversation. “I don’t get it. A hermit trying to teach love?”
“Do you think that I was always a hermit? Once, I worked with the earth. With my claws and a pick. Alva surrounded me, and I was subject to my feelings more than I practiced love. Is it any wonder that a man who’s learned his lesson would teach? Is it odd for him to wish that others would spare themselves his mistakes?”
There was a silence between them. Crell could think of nothing to say. This Kyndelin who sounded both sensible and passionate still couldn’t dispel the dissatisfaction his words left with Crell.
“I told you the story,” Hasyl said, “because it’s important that love be understood.”
Crell narrowed his eyes. That settled it. “No one can understand love,” he said. He turned to the Skorgon. “Begin.”
Chapter 17
Chronicles and Crime
Fainfal’s border with the Sangriga kingdom of Tyrlis lay two days south of Hasyl’s home. Matil had plenty of time to read the hermit’s journal while the three travelers picked their way through the vast, sun-speckled wilds. She kept the large book open on Dewdrop’s shell, just in front of the saddle, and read interesting parts out loud to Khelya and Dask.
There were several entries detailing Hasyl’s defenses against bandits, be they Eletsol, Obrigi, Sangriga, or other kinds of alva; many entries about pleasant meals shared with strange travelers; some that recorded the rebuilding of his house over the centurie
s or his meetings with the Korsens; beautiful illustrations that grew more common and more prominent as the journal went on; scribbles of Hasyl’s ideas for contraptions; what seemed to be folk tales; absurd jokes; and ‘chronicles’ as the journal called them, interwoven throughout the book. At first Matil didn’t understand why those last ones were included; they described very minor occurrences that unfolded over the course of a season or longer.
The first one was titled Chronicle of a Year and it was chiefly about the weather and the changes that came over this part of the forest during a year’s three-season cycle. His writing for Year was terse and factual, but he indulged in naming the trees by his home. Chronicle of a Flower came next, dated twenty years after the first. It followed the growth of a flower – lushly rendered in the hermit’s scratchy sketching and warm paints – from its first sprouting, through the storms it weathered, and finally to its death in a harshly cold Thrual. Softer words than Hasyl had used in Year conveyed his attachment to the flower. Another chronicle described the flashes that he witnessed of a particular squirrel’s life. ‘The dancer twirled out on an eastern limb of Braya Oak today, in fine spirits. I wonder what he calls that step.’
One story, begun just a year after the squirrel’s chronicle ended, went on for a few years in short but involved passages. Chronicle of a Burrow, it was called. Hasyl wrote down his observations of a rabbit family until an abrupt conclusion, after which there were no more chronicles for a long time. His other entries had gone back to being blunt, and there were no pictures for a hundred years. The next picture was of a robed, burly man with very small ears and – standing over him, dominating the page – a black badger with white stripes on its head.
‘Hope fails sometimes when I cannot see the end,’ were the words beside the man and beast. ‘And I feel the forest tugging at my heart, begging me to waver. It is a sweet feeling. So sweet that I nearly lost myself. Tell me, Thosten. Why a Kyndelin? Why me? Is there an end at all?’ And at the bottom of the page, in bolder ink, ‘Wait a little longer.’ Hasyl repeated that phrase in many of his following entries. The years turned with the pages, but even with his descriptions and pictures, Matil couldn’t imagine what that time must have been like to live through.
