Feynard

by Marc Secchia

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Does the energy of a fireball not dissipate in the burning? Your magic appeared to absorb and negate the others–gathering power to itself rather than expending it. If so, that is somewhat unexpected, even unique.”

  Kevin nodded slowly. Zephyr’s anti-magic–the magic no other wizard would touch. For every action, an unequal and unpredictable reaction. This was as much as he could allow himself to understand; much more would have tipped him over the edge of terror, and his self-control was already a desperate attempt to shore up a crumbling dam wall. His voice was trembling. “Do you think I’ll regain the use of my hand, Snatcher?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “I wouldn’t want to end up crippled, like Amadorn.”

  Snatcher shot him a disdainful grimace. “Kê, for shame! That is as unworthy a comment as I have ever heard cross your lips, young Kevin!” And with his paw, he pressed the Human irresistibly towards the portal. “Come, the others will be wondering what has become of us.”

  They stepped into light.

  * * * *

  Five seconds in Mistral Bog had been enough to convince Kevin that he and swamps did not mix well. It was their third lighttime crossing the Southern Marches, the first and second having passed without incident, and his opinion of watery places had changed not one jot.

  Hunter led out, loping along a grassy ridge with a long, lithe stride. Next came Snatcher, shambling along with enormous momentum, followed by Akê-Akê with an arrow nocked ready to the bowstring, seeking to bring down another bird to add to their dinner. He already had a brace of fat moorhens slung over his shoulder. Their blood stained his hairy back and left a drip-trail behind him. Zephyr, next in line, kept fastidiously stepping over the spots of blood, much to the annoyance of the Witch, who had thrice during the afternoon found herself somewhat closer to Zephyr’s rump than she evidently preferred. Kevin dragged along behind the tall Witch; Amadorn and Alliathiune brought up the rear. His shoulders kept itching from the Dryad’s icy stares, as he imagined, although in reality, she was concentrating more on her conversation with the Druid, which at this point consisted of a detailed and technical dispute concerning the properties of hillabane, a herb used against fevers and rheumatic aches.

  To their left, below the ridge, Kevin’s gaze moved over a dark, peaty body of water broken at intervals by khaki-coloured sedge grasses and moss-green reeds. Dotted along the ridge he saw stands of hardwood trees that towered into the drifting rain like ranks of giant, slender mushrooms. The damp, knee-high grass had soaked through Kevin’s trousers. Water ran down into his boots, soaking the furry inners that passed for socks on Feynard. His toes squelched at every step. And he was terrified that the long grass would conceal snakes, for he had seen a small bird of prey carrying off a wriggling grass-snake not an hour earlier–Akê-Akê had helpfully pointed it out to him.

  One aching footstep after the other through a domain loved only by the Lurk, thought Kevin, scowling blackly at nothing in particular. Miserable fens! Even the thickest boots did not help when one stumbled into a puddle! It was just typical that the weather was as wretched as his mood. A constant, misty drizzle had gradually seeped moisture down the back of his neck. He was chilled to the bone. Accursed Hills they kept rabbiting on about! Did the sun never shine here? Suns plural, he reminded himself, recalling an earlier conversation with Snatcher–goodness, was it more than a week ago now? The Bridge of Storms seemed a half-forgotten dream, lost in the turmoil that had enveloped them since. Kevin wiped his nose. He was sure he had caught a chill–that would show them. Slave drivers to a creature, especially that bully of a Lurk. Snatcher’s mist-shrouded bulk, three companions ahead of him, received a particularly poisonous glare. It would serve them right when he sickened and perished.

  Where was Glimmering of Dawn? They had been anxiously awaiting his arrival. The Eagles were renowned for their ability to cover vast distances by spending both darktime and lighttime on the wing, without rest. Kevin rolled his eyes. His knees were grazed and his shins a battleground of bruises. But the worst was his hand. What had transpired back at the Well kept whirling through his mind like a film clip set to loop, serving only to deepen his wretchedness. His hand was ruined. Irreparable. Blaming the magic was no solace–he did not even believe in it! ‘No,’ he whispered bleakly, ‘there is only one person to blame, Kevin Jenkins! You’re a victim of your own choices, you unhappy little cretin. Sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong. You richly deserve punishment, you horrible, snivelling weasel!’ That whole afternoon was a hazy, drunken mess, save for the moment when he had attacked the Dark Apprentice and earned himself a crippled limb. That part was as clear as a shard of the finest crystal.

  He did not even dare to consider what the others must think of him. Had he not warned them from the first? Had he not protested and resisted the summons to Feynard? And had he not … oh, fiddlesticks! What did it matter now? The skeins of hope were unravelled, reduced to dust. Fine health forced him to endure this journey without the blessed relief that his condition had once allowed him–although he now saw his prior acceptance of his genetic fate as a form of weakness and a deplorable lack of spirit–and compelled him to continue this course although it would end with one Kevin Albert Jenkins resting six feet beneath the hallowed turf of Driadorn.

  The lighttime was drawing to a close and the Mancat had been casting about for a place to take shelter, when there came a sudden rushing of air above them and a soft cry of greeting. Akê-Akê muttered crossly, easing the arrow off his bowstring. With a flurry of powerful wing-beats, a great Eagle settled upon a fallen tree not ten paces to Kevin’s right hand, treating them to a view of his magnificent plumage. His colouring was like the rosy golden blush of dawn at its tips, set off against vermilion and carmine glory as his wings beat once for balance, and he regarded them all with a fierce, predatory eye and a proud set of his head. In his talons he clutched a golden sceptre, a gift for the Dragon-Magus Amberthurn.

  “I am Glimmering of Dawn,” said he, in tones as impressive as his bearing, “and I hail from the Tramalian Eyrie. I’m pleased to have found you at last. I searched the length and breadth of these dreary fens this last lighttime, hampered by these low-lying clouds.”

  “The Peace of the Mothering Forest be upon you, noble Eagle,” said Zephyr, nodding his horn in greeting, and introduced the other members of the party in turn.

  “The swift strength of Eagles be granted to you all,” returned Glimmering of Dawn. “As my first service, allow me to appraise you of a safe, dry cavern upon yonder ridge, where one might take shelter from the Skanks and this infernal moisture. Even at your crawling pace it should be no more than half a turn away. Secondly, you appear to be headed directly toward an encampment of Men from Ramoth, who follow the way of the Ram, and would surely give a warm reception to any who came bearing the hallmark of magic.”

  Zephyr made a disgusted noise and explained for Kevin’s benefit, “They are a Human sect who, amongst other things, believe it their sacred duty to eradicate all sign and practice of magic. They’re also known to enslave intelligent creatures. We should give consideration as to how we might avoid these–”

  “Fruitcakes,” said Alliathiune.

  “A pestilence walking the face of Driadorn, moreover,” rumbled Snatcher, staring southward with an unreadable emotion clouding his eyes.

  “Aye, good Lurk,” added Akê-Akê, pushing his matted curls clear of his eyes. “Even in the Faun lands we have heard of these Men of Ramoth. But if they have slaves, then I declare that we should free them!”

  “You and what army, good Faun?”

  Akê-Akê glowered at Zephyr’s good-natured mockery. “Fie!” he spat near Kevin’s foot. “Having been freed of narrow-minded, tribal tyranny to pursue a greater goal, am I not grateful for every lighttime’s life and breath I have after my Opening? I would share my reprieve with other creatures less fortunate than I.”

  For once
, the Unicorn’s lip did not curl. “Noble sentiments,” he muttered. “Come, we should take shelter before eventide. Perhaps we may consider this mad Faun’s proposal in greater comfort.”

  * * * *

  Kevin, resting upon the sandy cavern floor that evening with his blanket so closely wrapped about him that only his eyes and hair showed, enjoyed a level of comfort that had been all too rare recently. The smell of roasting fowl might have driven Zephyr and Alliathiune to vociferous complaints, but it was making him salivate–Akê-Akê patiently turned a spit, crouched so close to the small fire that Kevin imagined his hairy knees might catch alight any moment. The firelight threw the patterning on his face into clear relief, highlighting how the process of scarification raised scar tissue above the skin’s surface, unlike the process of tattooing. Those swirls and curlicues, sweeping from his broad forehead around his eyes and across his prominent cheekbones, then splitting up to streak across his cheeks to his jawline in jagged bolts representing fork lightning, made his aspect mysterious and exotic, a Faun Loremaster conjuring strange spirits from the fire. Kevin shuddered.

  Why become superstitious now, Kevin inquired of himself angrily, when he had all the advantages of Earthly scientific methods at his disposal? Why be content with this notion of magic? Had the witchcraft of the Middle Ages not been supplanted by the clear, logical structures of scientific reason? There must be a rational explanation for the phenomena he had been confronted with on a daily basis. His gaze passed over Zephyr, imbibing a warm drink with the benefit of his telekinesis, to Alliathiune, sitting cross-legged opposite, discussing a scrap of parchment with Amadorn. Was the poor, crippled Druid the most powerful of their number? Even so, he must also be the most humble and forgiving. In his interactions with the others, the Druid had already shown a graciousness untainted by pride. For Kevin, who had always nursed his grudges, this was hard to understand.

  Kevin felt an utter fool. How would he ever be able to face the Dryad again? And yet he recognised that the sight of Alliathiune chatting animatedly to the Druid spawned a kind of helpless jealousy in his breast, which despite his alarm at her alien powers, seemed only to have grown in line with a vexing inability to ignore the girl’s presence. His much-prized ability to devote himself to one matter to the exclusion of all others had withered like unwatered grass. Quietly, staring into the flames, Kevin replayed the original dream of Alliathiune in his mind–the dream that had begun it all, this mad escapade to Feynard, this wholly unexpected new lease on life … and freedom. Freedom from Father’s tyranny. His burgeoning strength to do things unimaginable not even a month before. Perhaps it was for this reason he felt such a deep connection with her? Even then the sense of being drawn to her across limitless time and space had been utterly compelling.

  “Deep in thought, good Kevin?” Zephyr’s low voice broke in on his musings.

  “Yes–far away.”

  “In lofty and profound consideration of …?”

  In the background, Kevin saw Alliathiune’s eyes flicker across to them. “Not a great deal,” he said. “I was just thinking back to my first dream of Feynard, and how much has happened since that day.”

  “Lighttime,” Zephyr corrected him automatically. “Yes, much has changed. We stand on the brink of a terrible war. The Dark Apprentice has revealed his hand at last. His plans are doubtless far advanced.”

  “I feel so guilty, Zephyr.”

  “Guilty? Why?”

  “Because of what happened at the Well.” He hung his head, studying his feet gloomily. “Because of what I did.”

  The Unicorn lowered his voice as he eased closer to Kevin. His eyes were gentle in the firelight, and full of wisdom. “Because you were inebriate?”

  “That too.”

  “Ah–what you said!”

  Amadorn glanced over at them now. “Shh … softly,” said Kevin.

  “My apologies, good outlander. My failings are obvious–overweening vanity, a fondness for high-sounding words, and a love of my own voice.”

  This barely squeaked a smile from the Human. “I can’t remember,” he breathed into Zephyr’s ear now, “but I know I spoke far too freely to that Wolverine and the other Human. I blabbed everything, Zephyr.”

  “Ah … you didn’t tell me that.”

  The depth of censure in Zephyr’s voice was almost unbearable. “I feel so ashamed, I could curl up and die right here.” Kevin sniffed so loudly it echoed further down in the cave. “I can’t bear you being nice to me, either, when I’ve been such useless baggage. I just keep dragging everyone into trouble and having to be rescued from beetles and plants, and I’m clueless about magic and simple things like alcohol. Zephyr, do you think Alliathiune will ever speak to me again? Not that I’m worth speaking to, evidently. I’ve let everyone down.”

  “Do you even remember what you said?”

  “Snatches of the afternoon, like dancing with the other Dryads, or bits of that conversation with the Wolverine. Not very much, old bean. Do you …?”

  The Unicorn lowered his muzzle and, sotto voce, told Kevin word for word exactly what he had said and done. If the earth had opened at that point, he would have gratefully flung himself into the abyss. He hung his head and let tears of self-directed fury and loathing wet the sandy floor between his legs. He could not have imagined worse. No wonder Alliathiune had been so cold toward him since! How shameful; his base lusts exposed for the world to see–how awfully he had treated her! A myriad dirty thoughts, unguarded moments and covetous impressions raced through his mind. He felt physically sick.

  But the touch of Zephyr’s horn brought a healing balm to the fevered flow of his recriminations, and the Unicorn said, “Do not be dismayed, good Kevin. You are not afflicted by any malaise of character save that which is familiar to all creatures. Not one may claim perfection. We are all wont, on occasion, to think and feel things that horrify, disgust, or embarrass us. Partly, it is only natural.”

  “What is only natural?”

  “The reaction of a male to a female of his species–or, more accurately, of a related species. That is the law of all natural creatures. There is nothing wrong or evil about being attracted to beauty.”

  “But when it spills over, becomes ugly …”

  “Indeed, it becomes a most disagreeable exhibition of lust.”

  Kevin winced.

  “Consider–I, who consider life sacred and would never wish to take the life of another creature, no matter how insignificant, have upon numerous occasions wished that Mylliandawn were dead so that I could be relieved of my honour-debt. Worse still, I have spat upon the graves of my dam and sire in my misdirected anger towards them.”

  “But Mylliandawn was slain,” Kevin mumbled. It was natural? These feelings for a part-vegetable, green-skinned enchantress of a Dryad were natural? “What now of your debt?”

  “I will complete this task,” Zephyr averred, nudging him with his muzzle. “I will complete it with your aid, good outlander. Together we will defeat the Blight. Then I will go to the Council in their precious Ardüinthäl and demand my freedom!”

  “Good Unicorn, what confidence you display!”

  “Do I? That’s certainly my dream!” Zephyr sighed and added, “At the Council of War, good Kevin, we received many distressing reports about the progress of the Blight. It is everywhere to be seen, save those places most protected by the Dryads and other ancient arts. I chafe at our every delay.”

  “I ache in every bone and joint. This pace is killing me.”

  “You complain far too much.”

  “Probably–but Zephyr, I need your advice, now more than ever. What should I do about Alliathiune?”

  “What’s done cannot be undone, good Kevin,” Zephyr said stiffly. “I advise patience.”

  And he moved off to speak to the Witch.

  Kevin stared after him in distress and astonishment, wondering what had turned the Unicorn’s tone from neutral to glacial. Why should Zephyr deny him his much-vaunted wisdom and
insight?

  Briefly, after a delicious dinner of fruits, berries, and waycrust, and barbecued, spiced moorhen for the meat-eaters, the company discussed Akê-Akê’s desire to relieve the Men of Ramoth of their captives. But Hunter returned from her scouting to confirm that it was merely a raiding party ahead, numbering several hundred warriors. There were no slaves. This assessment cooled even the Faun’s hot-headedness, and they decided to skirt the encampment before dawn rather than risk alerting them to their presence.

  The Witch replaced Glimmering of Dawn’s watch, and the Eagle returned to sup on the remains of dinner, taking to the Dryad’s vocal disgust a particular and vocal delight in the ‘juicy entrails’. She declared an urge to rid the world of all carnivores.

  Turning to the Druid, she said, “Perhaps you would entertain us with a song, good Druid, ‘ere we turn our thoughts to slumber?”

  “Some of our number dream already,” said he, indicating Hunter.

  But the Mancat, curled close to the fire’s heat, opened her eye a slit and purred, “Think you a Cat sleeps without one eye open, noble Druid? Sing, I entreat you, for my heart longs to learn why the tales tell of Druids of golden voice and the power to weave marvels upon the simple harp, of which art they are masters without peer.”

  “You honour me.”

  Kevin was intrigued. He had noted the fine, baritone timbre of the Druid’s voice, and several of his early lectures in Thaharria-brin-Tomal had praised this particular skill of the Druids to the very heavens. Thus his eyes brightened as the shaggy-haired man unpacked his instrument. Some nights at Pitterdown Manor, when Father or Brian was entertaining, the strains of live music had drifted up through the house like threnodies of unattainable happiness. He had once learned piano, for Father despised a ‘one-sided’ education, but he had given it up a number of years back upon attaining his grade eight from an external examiner. When the tutors left after his eighteenth birthday, the piano had fallen into disuse. He was disinclined to drag himself downstairs and had always regarded himself a poor student, having to practise for hours in order to train his clumsy fingers to the perfectionist standard he demanded of himself. But he missed it now with an unexpected ache. Why had he ever given it up?