Chased By War

by Michael Wolff

  Time. Sefiros fought hard to keep emotion from his face. Someone deserved his rest, after all the centuries of guardian-ship. Only there would be no heir to follow him. A gaping wound would follow the passing, a vacuum of power in which emperors and miscreants would seize their own glory. The heavens needed Someone more than they cared to admit.

  “I’m sorry, my friend. I’m so, so sorry.” His hand came up, glowing with Fire.

  Someone blinked, then curdled into his blankets as Cayokite’s words penetrated. “What are you doing?”

  “What I have to.” The glowing hand came upon Someone’s chest.

  The room exploded in golden fire. Threads of white spread from Sefiros’ fingers, searching and finding entry through Someone’s veins. Inch by inch the mortality faded. Lines and furrows on the face melted away. Skin became fuller, younger. The hair returned from wisps of jagged white to the rich ginger Someone had so long desired. One final hum of energy, and Someone was a new man.

  “What did you do to me?” Someone pushed himself off the bed with a strength he had naught a moment hence. First fingers ran over smooth skin, then a hurried rush to a mirror. “You...You renewed me?”

  “The worlds need you, Someone.”

  “But I...I was...I was ready to die, damn you! Don’t I deserve that? I had finally let all of that go, and you...” Someone fell into a three-legged chair and clasped his forehead with two fingers. “How many renewals do I have?”

  “Another cycle. Twelve more lives.”

  “And another twelve, when this cycle runs dry? Another lease on life?” Someone raised his head, and his eyes shone with a light equal parts relief, joy and violation. “You cannot play with the rules of reality, Sefiros.”

  “Rules can be bent with minimal consequence, Someone.” A groan escaped him, bending him double. “It seems like my time is up.”

  “Oh no. You’re not leaving me with these people. What am I to say?”

  “Whatever you want, Someone. They will be too glad to care.”

  “Sefiros.” A pause of uncertainty. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” And then Sefiros faded away like the ghost he had become.

  LXIII

  Getting the wagon bordered on the obscene. Once, a long time ago, Lazarus had hosted a re-enactment of sorts, in honor of the anniversary of two clans joining in marriage after decades of war. “Most people follow traditions that make little sense, if any.” Lazarus explained. “Wondrous miracles are for the storybooks. However, it is not unknown for them to happen from time to time.”

  Mykel snorted at the memory. Two lonely souls from opposing families, falling in love in the moonlight? It was one of Lazarus’ poorer lessons. And yet there was no denying the craftsmanship of those mock-wagons. “Daryl Lyrad,” Lazarus announced upon introductions. “Shipmaker, house-builder, bridge-forger and everything in-between. There’s no better wood-smith in the world.” That was ten years in the future. Mykel hoped for little difference between then and now. The last few weeks had made the librarian cautious even in the simplest matters, and the wariness was a hard habit to break.

  “Hello?” For a moment Mykel wondered if he misread the directions. The floor was clean of sawdust; no instruments perched on pegs upon wooden walls, not even the irritation of wood-dust hanging in the air. “Hello?”

  “Just a moment.” At the aforementioned moment, a man who was not a wood-smith entered the room. Shorn of apron, goggles and calluses, the man could’ve been a denizen of dozens of inns and taverns. “What do you want?”

  Mykel glanced at Shayna, at the woodsmith, at Shayna and back again. “Uh...Are you Daryl Lyrad?”

  “Daryl Lyrad was my father. I’m Niven Lyrad.” The youth bulled over the obvious question. “I’m telling you the same thing I’ve told everyone else. I’m not inheriting my father’s business. You’ll have to find someone else.”

  “Can you recommend another?” Shayna asked. “Surely you know someone in your father’s employ.” He did, and a few seconds later the pair walked away with the name of Daryl’s students. Unfortunately, twilight was deepening by the time the concert was over, so they returned to the small inn they’d stashed Caryl in.

  Mykel didn’t get any sleep, though. His mind was too afire with notions familiar and dreadful. Maybe Lazarus was wrong about Daryl Lyrad. He was mortal, after all, despite what the legends claimed. And yet the two statements didn’t sit well together. Lazarus was not one to misread details.

  A crossroads lay out in his mind. A Lyrad built the wagons at that re-enactment. A small detail, and yet the smallest details were the most important. Change was immediate, hinging on decision. Until the moment of action the path of the future lay in an infinite myriad of paths. A great change in time’s heady flow was for the fancy of bards and harp-songs. Change could only come into play in small increments. Paths of action were grouped together by similarity. A cat being rescued from a tree was closer to a cat dying from a fall on that very tree, than, say, a dog climbing a tree. Action was always happening. Decisions were always happening. Until the librarian had chosen to enter the world of the past, the world he had left and the world he had entered remained separate, two identical timelines parallel to each other. The decision to interact with the past forked the path the timeline was dependent on, creating a new future. No matter how small, a change of woodsmiths would alter everything. The young Lyrad had to fill his father’s shoes.

  They came back the next day to convince Niven, and Mykel froze in recognition. Niven had the same dusty skin as the cripple in the stocks. “Your father. Your father is in the stocks.”

  “I have no father.” Yet there was a quiver to his voice when he said it. “I’m not him, and I never will be.”

  “Never will be what?” A broad-shouldered man dropped onto an errant stool as though he owned the place. Indeed, he looked one of great wealth, though the inferior gems on his fingers and gild of a raven-feathered cloak named him an imposter. Mykel caught a pair of men at the edge of vision, and what little he did see were lumpy with muscles. Bodyguards? In a rundown village lost on the royal maps? Only the elite carried themselves with such swagger. What was going on?

  “My lady. I am Arven Civer.” He bent to one knee to kiss Shayna’s hand and missed the twist of her lips. “It is truly a wonderful day when such beauty graces us in the frontier.”

  “She’s nobody, Arvin. Just a passerby.” Lyrad hefted a heavy wooden chest without so much a bend of the back from its weight. The boy knew wood, which was plain; he would not have known the art of carrying otherwise.

  “Even passersby can be princesses.” Arvin’s laugh was akin to a snake’s rattle; Mykel forced himself to maintain the same. Elites tended to take ill at the slightest variation of expected privileges. That Arvin thought himself of regal blood did not correlate the realization he was lord of shrubbery and bushes. “What miracle has come to place you in our midst, my dear?”

  Shayna put out a small smile that didn’t touch her eyes. “I travel with my husband, Morgan Lewis. I am Sara Kysh, if it pleases you.”

  “It does please me,” Arvin replied. “It pleases me very much.” Everyone in the room knew the focus of his interest, however poor he was at hiding it. No one’s said no to him in some time now. “I must protest your immediate surroundings. A hovel like this is no place for a beauty like yourself.” His face lit up with a smile that had nothing to do with sincerity. “I insist that you spend the night in my quarters.”

  Mykel barely held back a laugh. The grandest quarters were like to be a hunched hut of mud and grass, if not worse. How could Arvin even think to convey impressions with resources so meager? “I would appreciate the roof over my head.”

  Arvin blinked as t
hough noticing the librarian for the first time. “Of course. How silly of me. Of course both of you are invited.” His eyes flashed hot for the sudden obstruction, though. A thing common to every blueblood.

  “Actually, Sir Arvin, my husband will not be joining us. We have a fellow charge that must be tended to.”

  Caryl. How could I be so stupid? “Oh yes. Of course. Our charge.” He put as much disdain as he could into the words. “Well then, Sir Arvin, I must place my wife’s presence in your hands.”

  “I promise you. I shall keep her safe as I would my mother.”

  Yeah, right. Mykel watched them enter a wagon summoned by the bodyguards. It was superior quality than the rest of the fort-city, but only as superior as gild was to bronze. He even waved at the pair as they departed, putting every scrap of naivety into it.

  “Okay. What was that about?”

  Lyrad. “Is he the reason why your father’s crippled?”

  “I told you before I have no father. I’m trying to get out of this place –”

  “Don’t toy with me.” This time Mykel needed no pretending. The whole affair put so much fire in his eyes the carpenter gaped at him as though he was a dragon made flesh. “I’d rather not attract so much attention, but events have forced my hand. Now if you ever want to see your father again you’ll answer any question I’ll put to you. Clear?” The young carpenter managed a slight nod. “Good. Now start explaining.”

  The tale was not only unimpressive, it was painfully predictable. A father, wanting more than a carpenter’s future for his son, dealt deals with those most important in the town’s inner circles. Promises were made, and the boy received the whole of the world at his fingertips. Only the payment of said promises came far too soon. One promise broken, then two, then three. Pretty soon there was a hired thug pacing the front of the store, his broken nose and flat eyes repulsing everyone within five steps. And when finally those of the inner circle lost their patience, another payment was acquired.

  “No one did a thing. People that lived next to us, people who were present at my birth, that bathed me and looked after me...They all saw it but wouldn’t speak up. They just hurried away. Bunch of cowards.”

  “And so, they made a deal with you.”

  “They said they would leave my father alone if I paid the debt. It cost me everything.”

  “They wanted more, but your father wouldn’t let you.”

  “He made another deal. Said I was forbidden. That I pack up the store and take my leave. I was never to build anything from wood. That not a scrap of the family woodwork would come to market. They’d leave my father alone.”

  Mykel let out a sigh. “It’s not your fault, Niven.”

  “Of course it’s not my fault, you idiot. It’s their fault. Those idiotic nobles, living on their high hill, moving us like pawns. Damn them! We are not puppets! We don’t dance to their strings!”

  Mykel tensed. He recognized the fire all too well. “You’re not thinking of doing something stupid, are you?”

  “Stupid?” Amidst the tale somehow a dagger found itself in Niven’s hand. “My father is a prisoner because of me! Do you understand? This is all my fault!”

  “And if you charge their palace you’ll be dead. You’ve done naught but make the situation worse.”

  “I’m not running.”

  “I never suggested that.”

  “You think I’m yellow, don’t you? I’m a woodsmith’s son! I know how to sharpen things!”

  “It wouldn’t matter if you were a blacksmith’s son. It wouldn’t matter if you forged the best weapon the world had ever seen. You don’t have a chance.”

  “And you would?” Hate-filled eyes locked on the iron bracer. “You’re a cripple. You’ve only got one goddamn hand. What could you do than I can’t?”

  “Nothing. My wife on the other hand –”

  “Your wife? You let her go inside that monster’s house? You intentionally put her in danger?”

  “She can handle herself. Trust me.”

  “You’re a real bastard.”

  “So I’ve been told.” An uneasy silence filled the air. “Look. Just keep your head low and don’t attract any attention. This will be over before you know it.”

  “What? You’re leaving me?”

  “Sara has her role to play, and I have mine. Just do as I say.”

  Slipping out like this rankled. Inwardly the librarian knew his acts seemed cowardly, and if it were any other time he’d agree with Lyrad. But this time wasn’t any other time. This was the best way for everyone.

  The best for you and Caryl, you mean.

  No. The best for everyone.

  Liar. You could have brought the kid with you. He’d certainly be safer in the inn instead of his father’s store.

  In a domicile filled with his father’s friends, drinking and whoring? He’d try to kill them all in minutes.

  You just don’t want him in the same room as Caryl.

  There was no denying that. Caryl was very delicate, especially with the baby. Anything could happen, and almost all of them meant death. Babe or mother, it didn’t matter. Thus, it was no surprise that upon his room at the local inn his face was dark and grim.

  “What has happened?” Oh, Caryl was a sight to see. She was still in bed, with a mess of food, dishes and various instruments surrounding her. More than a fair share of the food was desserts.

  “Caryl. Where did all this food come from?”

  “I gave it to her.” In from the side room entered a stocky, leather-skinned woman. Her head barely came level to Mykel’s abdomen, close enough and more to his manhood. “How is it that you left a pregnant woman alone for hours? Didn’t your mother raise you right?”

  Mykel forced himself to take a deep breath. It didn’t work. “Caryl, who is this?

  “This is Carmella, the maid.”

  “Head maid.” She said it as if it meant a damn.

  Head of nosy gossips. Great. Mykel thought to speak and remembered the close distance between the woman and the target between his legs. “What is she doing here?”

  “I was hungry,” Caryl whined.

  Pregnant women are always hungry. Again, he took stock of the mess. “There must be a thousand different chocolates here!”

  “Oh. That reminds me. Carmella, would you –”

  “I’m sorry, Caryl. We have no more chocolate.”

  “Oh.” The interest gone, Caryl swung back to the librarian. “Where is Shayna?”

  “Another woman? Caryl, you’ve got poor choices in men.”

  “Shayna is not my woman. Neither is she!”

  “So my sons keep saying. And yet I have so many grandchildren.”

  “Carmella,” Caryl chided. “He’s different.”

  “So my daughters keep saying.” Then without a word she moved to a far corner and began folding clothes.

  Mykel winced. “Uh, what are you doing?”

  “Folding clothes. What does it look like I’m doing?”

  “Uh...could you do that somewhere else? I’d like some privacy.”

  Carmella snorted. “I know what that means. The poor girl needs some protection. Since you’re not up to the job, consider me her shadow.”

  Mykel took a deep breath to calm himself. It didn’t work. “Caryl, what are you doing? You’re not supposed to attract attention.”

  “Attract attention?” Carmella snorted. “With a belly like that, how could she not attract attention?” Carmella’s face sharpened, giving her nose a slanted, razor-edge. “It’s the least you deserve, you anima
l. Leaving a pregnant woman all by her lonesome. This one didn’t get hit enough from his father.”

  Mykel clamped his teeth closed, for if the words burning his lips were loosed, there would be a tragedy once begun would not finish till the last. Carefully he took an errant chair – he was not going to leave his back exposed to Carmella, not even for a moment – and huddled on the edge. “Are you really all right?”

  “Oh. Yes. Anywhere is better than –” Her eyes quivered at the memory. “– then there.” Caryl took a moment to steel herself before continuing. “What about you? Where is Shayna?”

  “She is in negotiations. We had some difference in obtaining a wagon. She’ll be back soon.”

  “And the horses? You could get horses? What were they? What was their breeding?”

  “I didn’t know you liked horses.”

  That drew a strange look from Caryl. “We only met the other day.”

  “Forgive me. You...You remind me of someone else.” You. He had a good ten years on her, and Caryl never mentioned anything about horses. I didn’t ask, Mykel realized. “Horses. Well...Um...They are of Northland breeding. They’ll be able to endure the weather.”

  “Are they from the Archipelago, or the Esroh?”

  “Um...”

  “Are they red or black?”

  “Uh...”

  “What about the legs? What size are the legs?”

  “Uh...It didn’t come up.”

  “Didn’t come up? You mean you bought the horses without bargaining?”

  “That’s...That’s one way of saying it.”

  “You should have brought me with you.”

  From the corner came Carmella’s laugh; a short, rasping snicker that rattled the lungs to spit out. Carmella balanced a great tower of white cotton clothes with one hand and a jug of water to fill Caryl’s glass with the other. Briefly Mykel imagined what sound Carmella would make with her jaw broken; only by inches did the librarian ignore the temptation. The last thing he wanted was Caryl’s scorn.