by Kel Kade
Wesson’s gaze was steady as he tilted his head. He again appeared to be listening to something that Rezkin could not hear.
“How long have you known?” Wesson finally asked.
“I suspected something was amiss when first you emerged from the woods. It did not take long to realize you are not who you say you are. Journeyman Wesson is not particularly strong in woodcraft. Your steps make no sound or mark, and you have not fallen once … among other things.” He paused but received no response. “Is he in there somewhere?” Rezkin asked, tilting his chin toward the mage. “Have you possessed him?”
Wesson smiled. “You misunderstand. I am not him at all. I have only taken this form.”
If that was true, Rezkin could find no fault in the reproduction. He asked, “Why him? He does not tend to disobey my orders. It would have been more convincing had you chosen Striker Kai.”
Wesson calmly nodded, and his smile and tone were congenial. “I am capable of taking on the shape of any living being for short periods. Magical creatures are the easiest to mimic, the stronger the better. The warrior was close to you, but not … what to do the humans call it … talented. This one was much easier, and I think I did well.” He said the last with a prideful smile as he patted his body like one would a new set of clothes.
Rezkin had never met a being of another race, much less a magical creature. The teachings of the Maker largely ignored the other races, but the old religions had much to say about them. One thing they all agreed upon was that magical creatures could be temperamental. They were referred to as the fae, but there were many separate races. Some races, such as pixies, were said to be vast, numbering in the tens of thousands, while others were relegated to singular beings. Rezkin could not imagine being the only one of his kind. At times, though, among the outworlders, he felt as such. Whatever this thing was, it seemed pleasant enough for the moment. He did not wish to garner its animosity so he maintained the casual conversation.
“Why are magical beings easier?” he asked.
The creature wearing Wesson shrugged and said, “A magical aura is easier to copy since I am a magical being. I study the desired form, produce a nearly flawless replica of an individual’s aura”—he rocked on his feet with pride—“and then pull it into myself. The better the copy, the more information I receive—mannerisms, speech, even recent memories. I could appear as anyone—a human, a keurg, a tree.”
“You could mimic my aura?” Rezkin asked. He did not like the idea of someone impersonating him, but he could see the advantage to such an arrangement if he could gain the creature’s cooperation.
The Wesson-creature grimaced. His gaze flicked over Rezkin again, and it did not appear to like what it saw.
“No, I would never desire to become you.” His voice held a note of pity, but then it shifted to irritation. “Why do you ask such questions? I should think you would be more interested in why I am here.”
Rezkin was surprised by the sudden shift in disposition but decided he should have expected it from the infamously fickle fae. “You would speak truth? I think you will tell me only what you want me to hear.”
“True,” the creature said, “but that does not mean you would not benefit from hearing it.”
“Nor am I guaranteed no harm. The fae are not known for generosity. There is always a price,” Rezkin retorted. “I have read of men being told their futures with disastrous consequences.”
The creature shrugged. “Shall we continue then?” He flicked his fingers toward the forest. “I believe you are on a deadline.”
“The keurg …” Rezkin said as he glanced back toward the beast. It was gone. He turned to the Wesson-creature and asked, “What did you do with it?”
“It was no longer needed,” the creature replied.
This was beginning to feel like one of the training scenarios that he had been required to complete without being informed of the rules. “This was some kind of test?”
“You are a warrior, a killer. I did not expect mercy or compassion,” the Wesson-creature said.
Rezkin shook his head. “It was not a matter of mercy or compassion. I was simply following the Rules.”
“Oh, you have rules. How endearing. What are they?” it asked with childlike curiosity.
Rezkin frowned. At times, it seemed the creature could read his mind, while at others, it was completely at a loss. Either way, the thing could benefit from the Rules. At least if it did, Rezkin would understand its behavior.
“Rule 102 – Do not kill without cause, Rule 188 – Do not engage in combat unless you must, and possibly Rule 2 – Kill with conscience.”
“Possibly?” it asked.
“I admit that I still do not understand that one. I would ask if you have any insight, but I fear what it would cost me.” Rezkin thought he saw a flash of golden light behind the green-blue of Wesson’s eyes.
“So you do feel fear?” it asked.
For a moment, Rezkin felt as though he were facing one of his former masters. He said, “Emotional fear is a hindrance without purpose. Instinctual fear breeds caution and knowledge of one’s surroundings. One would be at a disadvantage without it.”
The Wesson-creature strolled around him as it said, “A being with such discipline and practiced introspection. I shall enjoy our time together. But I think you underestimate yourself and your motives.”
“What are you?” Rezkin finally asked.
A shadow fell over the mage, and when it passed, where Wesson once stood was a new being. The creature was about five feet tall, and its build was slight, like that of an adolescent human. It had two arms and legs and a mouth, nose, eyes, and ears, but that was where its likeness to a human ended. Its brown skin was smooth but textured like driftwood that had not yet been bleached by the sun. From its crown grew what looked like thin twigs, on the ends of which fluttered leaves or possibly feathers—maybe both. The twigs drooped toward its shoulders like the branches of a willow tree. The creature’s mouth was but a slit in its face beneath a dainty nose. Its overly large eyes were golden-orange disks, like two small suns set into a bronze mask. It wore no clothes and possessed no features to indicate its gender.
The sounds of wind and rain surged past sharp, pointed teeth as it spoke.
The katerghen be me.
The creature crouched and scurried across the ground.
In human tongue,
In lyrics sung,
It clambered up the loose rocks—
Nymph they hail,
Of wood and vale,
—and scurried across the downed tree.
Devil of tor,
In Daem’Ahn lore,
It twisted its head and torso to peer at Rezkin upside down—
But among the we,
—then dropped to the ground to stand in front of him.
Katerghen be me.
Rezkin stared at the wondrous creature as he processed the sing-song speech. “Katerghen,” he repeated. He had never heard the term, but the creature’s words echoed in his mind. “You are a wood nymph.”
It blinked and smiled. “So they say, the human way.”
“Your speech is strange. It was not so earlier,” he observed.
The feathery leaves on its head abruptly trembled and then ceased. “Mine aura I be. I speak as the we,” it replied.
Rezkin was fascinated by the being, but he was pressed for time. He had to move this along. “What is your name?”
It tilted its head to rest on its shoulder. “Bilior, you may say.”
“Bilior, I do not desire to minimize this encounter, but as you said, I must hurry. I have wasted enough time as it is.”
“Your haste is waste,” Bilior replied.
Rezkin thought the sound of rustling leaves rushing from the katerghen’s throat might have been a giggle. He frowned. He might have been annoyed, but Bilior appeared quite confident in his assertion. While the nymph looked like an adolescent, his eyes held the depth of ages. Rezkin shook his head an
d stepped around the creature.
“I do not have time for this. I must go.”
Bilior followed silently as Rezkin made his way through the forest. Trees and rocks fell behind in perpetual rest, water gurgled as it rushed toward distant adventures, and the random squawk of birds and buzz of insects reminded Rezkin that he was not alone. Three hours later, he stopped in a relatively open space and dropped his pack. With a promise of violence in his eyes, he turned to face the unsuspecting katerghen and drew Kingslayer. Bilior looked at the Sheyalin longsword, blinked, and then met Rezkin’s gaze. He did not appear concerned.
“I have no wish to harm you, creature, but I will if you do not cease your meddling.”
Bilior tilted his head, assessing Rezkin critically with large gold-orange orbs. “Perhaps you could, but methinks you know not how.” Again, he chittered, a rustle of leaves.
“We have passed this tree at least three times today,” Rezkin stated. “I marked it.”
The creature tilted his head to the side to study the slight score on the trunk. “This is sure?” He pointed to the mark on the tree and then gestured to several others around them. “Not there nor yon nor fore?”
Rezkin’s gaze passed over every tree in sight. All of them, dozens, bore the mark, all in the same location. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because I can. Because you won’t. Because I must. Because you are.”
“You speak in riddles,” Rezkin growled.
“Riddles? I speak answers to questions unasked.”
Rezkin was frustrated. He had read the folklore and legends of the fae, but none of his training had prepared him for such irrational behavior. “What questions? What do you want?”
Bilior raised his arms out to the side and swayed like a sapling bending in the breeze. “He begins to see with open eyes. Greetings from the Ahn’an.”
Rezkin sighed and sheathed Kingslayer. It seemed the katerghen wanted to talk. He took a seat on a stump that had not been present moments ago and resolved himself to a break of unspecified length. One lesson he had gleaned from the legends was that if he were ever to encounter the fae, he should show respect but no weakness. To attempt to fight this creature would be a violation of so many Rules that he did not care to count. It was obvious by the subtle, yet effortless, displays of the creature’s power that he could not win.
The katerghen’s stare was disconcerting, but Rezkin could not tell his thoughts by his mannerisms. “What?” Rezkin asked.
“What are you?” Bilior asked. The creature’s confusion was evidenced by its sudden clarity and directness.
“You have certainly seen humans before. I know the patrols pass through here every few weeks. I am a man,” Rezkin said.
The katerghen chittered as his twigs rustled. “Tromp and scuff over leaves and logs, humans pass, a clomp, a whump, a snort, and thud. I see these men, but what are you?”
Rezkin had no idea what the creature was talking about, so he remained silent.
Bilior moved closer, much closer than Rezkin would have preferred. The golden gaze swept over him several times, and then the creature stared into his eyes for a long moment. “I sensed it, felt it, but could not see. Oh, the damage done. Long they passed, but you are one.”
“Listen, katerghen. I must arrive in Serret before dusk on the morrow. I know not how long you have kept me walking in circles, but if I do not arrive on time, the consequences could be dire. More than a hundred people’s lives are on the line.”
Bilior sat cross-legged on the ground and placed his elbows on his knees with his face in his hands. “Wh-h-h-y?” he asked, appearing as the small-men did when listening to their tutors’ stories.
“Why what?” Rezkin asked in frustration.
“Why must you save them?” it asked.
“Because it is the responsibility I accepted,” Rezkin answered.
“It is in your rules to save people?” the katerghen asked.
“No, but I am to honor and protect my friends.”
The katerghen sat up with overly dramatic cheerfulness. “They are all your friends?”
Rezkin sighed. “No, only a few.”
“Then why did you save the others?” Bilior asked.
Rezkin paused. Why had he taken it upon himself to save the others? If he was supposed to be their king, he might have been meant to save some of the Ashaiians, but most of the refugees were foreigners. Perhaps, as king, he was simply trying to preserve Ashaiian honor. No, the reason had to be much simpler. He had not thought much about it at the time. It had been an instinctual response.
Finally, he settled on an answer. “King Caydean’s orders were not consistent with the Rules, so I intervened.”
“So, you are to ensure that others follow these rules?” Bilior asked.
Rezkin was discomfited and uncertain. “No, I am only accountable for my own actions. Whether others follow the Rules is not my responsibility.”
Bilior uncoiled, gracefully gaining his feet. He chittered and danced, seemingly pleased to have made the point. Rezkin also knew a point had been made, one that was causing him uncharacteristic distress over his own actions. The problem was, he could not figure out what the point actually was. Why had he saved the others?
“It matters not,” Rezkin barked. “I accepted the responsibility of their safety, and I will see it done. Now I must reach Serret as quickly as possible and figure out how to undo whatever damage you have caused by postponing my arrival.”
“To where will you take them?” Bilior abruptly asked as though Rezkin had not just been chiding him for the delay.
“What makes you think I trust you with such information?” Rezkin snapped.
He was frustrated and concerned that the fae creature had managed to get into his head, figuratively if not literally.
Bilior tilted his head and chittered. “Methinks you do not know.”
Rezkin scowled at the fae creature. He had ideas, and he had ways of influencing people. If one possible haven did not work out, he would find another. The longer it took, though, the longer it would be before he could apply himself to other matters. Unfortunately, without certain diplomatic persuasions, they were just as likely to end up in someone’s prison as they were a sanctuary. Perhaps more so.
Bilior said, “Humans lost in a human world—unwanted, undesired, unwelcome. They be criminals or contemptibles? Nay. But lesser in the eyes of neighbors, lesser as are rats and curs.”
The creature blinked and tilted his head, as though waiting for Rezkin to deny it. He could not, so it continued. “But you are not as they, and they will follow thee”—a snicker of rustling leaves—“and Bilior can send thee safely, assured a haven be—for a fee.”
The creature’s entire body trembled, his leafy feathers flittered, and sounds of wind and thunder echoed off the trees.
“You know of a place? Somewhere I can take them where they will be safe?” Rezkin asked in surprise.
The tales claimed the fae were often conniving, masters of equivocal speech and trickery. Men were enticed into agreeing to more than they understood. One of the older Adianaik texts claimed, though, that if a fae failed to deliver on a promise, he would be bound to the service of the other party until one or the other died or he was released by his master. The text did not specify, however, what prevented the fae from simply killing the master.
Bilior chittered cheerfully. “A king you be, in mage’s mind I see. Your kingdom I find, if you pay me in kind.”
Rezkin sighed and shook his head. “We sailed from Ashai. We cannot return lest we risk imprisonment and death.”
“Ashai, Ashai, a human abode,” the creature spat as it crouched on the ground and turned away. It obviously was not a fan. It turned its head back to peer at Rezkin over its shoulder. “Not right for your kind.” He paused, and his demeanor shifted once again. Bilior strode slowly toward Rezkin like a predator stalking its prey. “Your humans are sinking in a human well. Of sanctuary, of haven, of asylum I tell.”<
br />
Rezkin had already realized he was caught in the creature’s web. Bilior would not allow him to leave the forest labyrinth until he got what he wanted. The creature seemed to want him to go to this mysterious place.
“How do I know we will not be heading to our deaths?” he asked.
Bilior’s countenance became serious for the first time since he had revealed himself. “The need is great, the need of the we. The price be high, the price is for thee. A fortress, a palace, a kingdom grand. You sail on your ship, far from this land. But in time come to pass, your kingdom grows bold. Your forces you bring, to save we of old.”
As Bilior’s words settled in his mind, Rezkin could not sit still. He stood and paced the clearing while surveying the dark recesses of the forest. When he turned back, the fae creature was sitting on the ground with his knees pulled up to his chest, his arms wrapped around them. He peered at Rezkin with pleading gold-orange eyes.
“You have an enemy? You wish for me to create an army to defend your kind?” he said.
The creature lurched to its feet and began pacing rapidly across the forest floor. His feet made no mark or shuffle, but his limbs and twigs creaked and rustled as feathery leaves fluttered. “Mine and thine! None will be spared.”
Rezkin said, “The fae are far more powerful than any human threat.”
In a flurry of crackling branches and wind, the creature was suddenly hanging from a tree limb directly in front of Rezkin’s face. “We are not so easily dismayed. ’Tis not the human army vast, nor mages born of Eihelvanan cast.” The next words were uttered in a harsh whisper as though Bilior feared speaking them would draw the enemy’s attention. “’Tis the rise of the underlings we fear.”
Rezkin narrowed his eyes. “What underlings?”
“H’khajnak,” Bilior said in a hiss.
Rezkin stared at the fae creature. He thought the katerghen must be toying with him. Bilior’s concern appeared sincere, but how could one tell with a being so foreign? Was he playing a joke on a hapless human who wandered into his domain? Knowing nothing more of the creature than what was passed among the bards and fairytales of the ancients, Rezkin could not fathom the katerghen’s motives. Would he so blithely invoke that name?
