Dreams of the Dark Sky

by Tina LeCount Myers

Marnej shifted his weight and bent forward, interested to see what the healer was doing. But he was doing nothing. He was once again still.

  “I am listening to the plant,” Kalek said finally, as if he’d read Marnej’s thoughts. “Do not distract me further. Go sit somewhere until I am done.”

  Marnej let himself be offended, but then his better judgment came to the fore. He walked over to a thick-trunked birch and slid down it to sit at its base. He laid his sword down beside him, then brought up his knees and rested his arms upon them. He leaned his head back against the trunk but continued to watch Kalek, who brooded over the plant, unmoving. Finally, Marnej grew bored and closed his eyes.

  “For one who could not wait for my attention, you found rest easily enough,” Kalek said.

  Marnej came awake with the healer standing over him. Kalek’s mouth twitched to one side in amused annoyance.

  Marnej jumped to his feet, snatching up his sword. The cold hilt stung his hand as he rushed to put it in his scabbard.

  “What were you doing with that plant?” he asked, breaking into a loping run to catch up with Kalek’s long stride.

  “I was listening to the plant’s song. I wanted to know the best time to harvest the leaves and roots,” Kalek replied without looking at him.

  “But it’s a plant,” Marnej said.

  Kalek arched his brows. “And you are Olmmoš, but I do not judge you harshly.”

  Marnej let the rebuff stand, knowing that he’d offended the healer. The two walked in silence for some time, their breath fogging the air between them.

  “Kalek,” Marnej said finally, weighed down by his need for answers.

  “Mmm,” said the other, as if lost in his own thoughts.

  “When I first met Einár, he spoke about the gods and knowing destiny,” Marnej said, unsure of how to begin. “Do you believe the gods have mapped out our destinies, the way our songs say?”

  The wind picked up, bring down cascade of bright yellow birch leaves upon them.

  “That is a question for Einár and for the Elders, not a healer like me,” Kalek said.

  Marnej swept the leaves from his shoulders. “I just thought you’d have an opinion.”

  Kalek stopped. “Why?”

  “Because . . .” Marnej hesitated.

  Kalek’s eyes flashed a warning. But Marnej’s need to know prevailed.

  “Because your actions brought my father here.”

  “Are you asking me if I believe it was my destiny to bring your father here and intertwine our lives together?” Kalek asked, his voice hardening.

  Marnej squared his shoulders. “Yes,” he said, then faltered. “I mean no. I mean: do you believe the gods have made this life for us or have we?”

  When Kalek didn’t immediately reply, Marnej went on in a forlorn ramble, “Was I always meant to end up here? Or did circumstance and my own action bring me here?”

  The hard set to Kalek’s features relaxed. He nodded his head as though he understood Marnej’s intent.

  “These are matters I have asked myself in the darkest of times,” he said. He raised his hands and gestured to the surrounding forest. “What do you see and hear?”

  “The forest. The trees. The plants,” Marnej replied in quick succession, then paused, uncomfortably aware of the deeper qualities around him, yet unwilling to speak of them. Haltingly he finally added, “I hear the wind and the birds. I hear the Song.”

  Kalek’s gentle smile radiated a weary appreciation.

  “We have lived within the Song of All for so long that we believe we see and understand how the world around us works,” he said. “Maybe this has led us to believe that we understand the gods, and perhaps we even act in their stead.” He stopped and looked around the forest. “But I think there is a mystery that cannot be heard or fathomed no matter how hard we listen to the Song.”

  Marnej waited for what Kalek would say next, but the healer began to walk again.

  “Wait,” Marnej called after him. “You can’t say that and walk away. What is it? What’s this mystery you believe exists?”

  “What does your Song say?” Kalek asked, stopping beside a narrow stream that flowed down into the eastern glade.

  Marnej balked, suddenly conscious of his own reticence.

  Kalek waited with arms crossed. “Come. It is not a secret you must keep. It is something I and all others can hear in the Song of All if we choose to listen.”

  Marnej gave Kalek a sidelong glance which he hoped spoke volumes about his reluctance.

  Then he said tentatively:

  I am the vessel of a father’s soul.

  I have journeyed into the realm of the dreams of the dark sky,

  And traveled back in a blaze of light.

  I enter into the world to meet my destiny,

  Knowing that I have been touched by the gods.

  “Do you believe what you say?” Kalek asked.

  Marnej shrugged. He didn’t want to admit that he considered his song just some magical incantation that allowed him to disappear from the Olmmoš soldiers who hunted him. But he also didn’t want to admit that he’d never given the meaning much thought.

  “Where does it come from?” he asked.

  “Your father,” Kalek said.

  Marnej thought again about each line, but he found himself no closer to understanding.

  “I don’t know, Kalek” he said, his voice crisp with irritation. “I don’t know what it’s telling me. What it’s saying about me.”

  The healer hung his head. He swore an oath under his breath, then looked up through furrowed brows in a way that made Marnej suddenly wary.

  “Your father gave you that song after Aillun gave him Dárja’s to sing. He said the words came from him, as if they had always existed in his heart.”

  Marnej shook his head. “But Dárja said her mother was dead.”

  “Dárja’s oktoeadni died in Irjan’s arms,” Kalek said, “Before Aillun died, she gave him Dárja’s song, to make him her guide mother.”

  By Kalek’s expression, it was clear that he expected Marnej to make a connection he couldn’t readily see.

  “Please, tell me plainly,” Marnej begged. “I hear your words, but I’m missing what you want me to understand.”

  The pity that welled in Kalek’s eyes pushed Marnej to the edge.

  “Just tell me!” he demanded, sounding more like a petulant boy than a man.

  Kalek fixed his pale eyes on Marnej. His voice came out low and measured.

  “The priest in the village where your family lived had somehow learned Irjan had once been a Piijkij,” he said. “Irjan never found out how the man knew, but the priest desired your father to hunt us once more.”

  Disgust played across Kalek’s face before he was able to go on. “Irjan tried to deny what he was. When that failed, he refused the service. Then, when there were no immediate reprisals from the Brethren, Irjan believed he had succeeded in escaping his past.” Kalek paused. His eyes narrowed, as if judging Marnej ready or not for what he next had to say. “He went to the last market before the season of snow, and returned to find his wife in death’s embrace. You had already gone onto the gods.”

  Marnej’s mind went blank, even as he knew he was finally hearing the truth.

  “Irjan held your mother until she passed. The following morning, as he prepared the grave, he said he heard a voice that gave him hope. He heard Aillun.”

  A chill passed through Marnej that had nothing to do with the cold morning.

  “Irjan remembered the old Brethren tales of our kind,” Kalek went on as relentless as he was compassionate, “Legend said our birthing could bring life back to the dead. Irjan tracked Aillun like he had all the others of our kind and he found her with Djorn, Aillun’s birthmate.”

  Marnej shook his head to disavow what was about to happen next.

  Kalek rebuffed Marnej’s unspoken plea with maddening calm. “You are shaking your head, but you have asked. You cannot have it both said a
nd unsaid.”

  The reproach stung Marnej, as if he had been slapped.

  “Go on,” he whispered.

  “Aillun and Djorn fought your father, believing he had come to kill them. Aillun wounded Irjan just as Djorn began to ascend.”

  “Ascend,” Marnej repeated. “What does that mean?” His voice sounded shrill, but he could do nothing about it. His pulse throbbed in his temples.

  Kalek grabbed him by the shoulders. “Djorn’s life was meant to give birth to Dárja and to help Aillun become almai like me. But Irjan thrust your body into the spirit stream.”

  Marnej blinked. There was only silence and the throbbing behind his eyes.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head vehemently. “No.”

  But as he protested, Marnej recognized the truth—the source of the sadness he saw in Kalek’s eyes and the reason behind Dárja’s hatred and resentment.

  Marnej swallowed. The pounding in his temples faded into the background.

  “I am alive because of what my father did,” Marnej said, voicing what he should have comprehended long before now.

  Kalek sighed. His tall frame sagged.

  “I am alive and Aillun is dead and Dárja will never transform,” Marnej said, a new lightheadedness making his words seem distant and not his own.

  Kalek jerked to attention. “She told you that?”

  “She blames me. All this time.” Marnej began to pace, needing to move as his anger came to life. “But it’s not my fault!”

  Marnej rushed Kalek, stopping a hand’s width from the Immortal. “I didn’t choose to live. My father did that! But she blames me. She should blame him!”

  “She blames herself most of all!” Kalek bellowed.

  Marnej staggered back, momentarily silenced.

  “She blames herself,” Kalek repeated, his voice softening. “She blames herself for Irjan’s death. We all kept the truth from her. Even so, she learned what had happened. She confronted Irjan, and they argued.”

  “But he’s the one to blame,” Marnej interrupted.

  “And what would you have done?” Kalek argued. “Would you have let your child die if you believed there was a chance he would live?”

  Marnej began to pace again, beads of sweat prickling his skin. “I would have . . .” He started to defend himself then discovered he had no answer other than his dismal anger.

  “Precisely,” Kalek said as the gap in Marnej’s argument lengthened into silence. “What would any of us have done in that situation? I do not believe the gods choose our actions. They may set the course of events, but it is we who decide what direction to go in.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  A LIGHT DUSTING OF SNOW fell on the tight circle of men. The soft flakes hissed as they hit the fire. Válde crouched , before them, a short stick in hand.

  “The outpost has the one gate, here.” He marked the ground with an X. “They have sentries posted at the four directions. But the southern sentry is rarely posted on the palisade. Instead, he is by the gate.”

  “He can still raise the alarm,” Gáral pointed out.

  “If we intercept the messengers on the forest path, he’ll be none the wiser,” Beartu said, rubbing his hands together. “The trees and the shadows of these darkening days will hide us.”

  “Let’s make sure it’s not Daigu waiting to pounce,” Redde warned. “In these conditions, with his eyesight, he’s bound to jump too late.”

  Mures snorted.

  Daigu shot the two a murderous glance.

  “This is not the time for high spirits,” Feles said.

  “You wouldn’t know high spirits if they kicked you in your stony backside,” Mures retorted, garnering a snicker from Redde.

  “And you two are like fox kits, yipping to hear their own voices,” the normally stoic man answered.

  “Enough,” Herko grumbled.

  “Beartu is right,” Válde said, seeking to bring the men back to the plan at hand. “Our best chance to take the messengers is within the woods.” He weighed the skills of those gathered. “Feles will shoot the men from their horses. Gáral, Herko, and I will dispatch any who remain alive. Edo, you and Daigu and Beartu, secure the horses. Mures and Redde, keep a watch on the path.”

  “And their valuables?” Herko asked, his mouth breaking into a crooked grin.

  “Take what you can,” Válde said.

  Edo sniffed. “Is it not enough that we slay men who have done us no harm? Must we scavenge their bodies for whatever shiny trinket catches our eye?”

  Herko scowled at the man.

  Válde jumped to his feet, ready to interpose himself, but the fool Redde beat him to it.

  “Edo, you should have become a priest rather than a Piijkij,” he said.

  Edo’s narrow chin quivered. “The Piijkij are Hunters, not rats feeding on a diseased carcass to survive.”

  Herko rose to this challenge. His bulk blocked Edo’s wiry frame from view. “Don’t you get it? That’s what we’re doing. Surviving. We’re rats, stealing what we can to live. Let go your pride, Edo. Decency won’t feed you.”

  “This is not what I pledged to do,” Edo said, his voice tight and menacing.

  “Stop!” Válde shouted, stepping forward. “Edo, Herko is right. This is about survival.” He took in the ragged faces of the men. “Our nobility is behind us. It was lost the day the High Priest betrayed the Avr. But we can make them pay for what they have done to our Brethren. To do this, we must live. You have a choice, Edo. You can stay among us and carry on, or you can leave and live by whatever ideals you choose.”

  Válde avoided Edo’s simmering stare, not wanting to push the man to act from wounded pride. Instead, he addressed the others. “The same goes for all gathered here. You have a choice. If you stay, you acknowledge that this is the truth of our lives.” He looked directly at Gáral, expecting to see defiance, but instead saw a nod of approval.

  “Well, I can’t leave while I share a horse with Redde,” Mures said.

  Nervous laughter passed through the former Brethren. Even Edo smirked and then shrugged.

  Válde took the gesture to be his pledge to stay. “Does everyone understand their part?” he asked, then waited to see if there would be any further dissent. “Right, douse the fire and let us take our positions. Redde, keep watch for our messengers. Beartu, you will be his relief. We wait for your signal.”

  In the dark hours of early morning, Niilán stood sentry along the western side of the Believers’ Stronghold. The wind had picked up. He shivered, noting the change in the weather and the shortening days. The season of snow approached. He could smell it. This is why he hated standing sentry. Not because of the harsh elements or the loss of sleep, but because it gave his mind too much time to think, too much time to dwell on matters beyond his control.

  Niilán stomped his feet and rubbed his hands.

  “Gods keep me from this,” he muttered, his breath a trail of mist through which he saw a figure approaching. Alert now, Niilán drew his sword, taking note of the fact the man wore no uniform. He broadened his stance.

  “State your purpose,” he said in a loud, clear voice when the man was within earshot.

  “I have come to speak with you, Niilán,” the man said, stopping just beyond reach.

  Beneath the warm woolen cap he wore, Niilán’s scalp tingled. “You use my name, but you are not known to me.”

  “I am known to few, but those who know me find value in my acquaintance.” The man opened his arms in a benevolent greeting, the kind that Niilán associated with those who had power to wield over others.

  The man took a step forward. The thin sliver of a moon shed no light on his features. There was, however, something naggingly familiar in his lanky bearing.

  “I approach you undisguised. I am armed, but I will not draw my weapon unless your actions force me to do so. My purpose is to make you an offer I believe you will find to be of interest.”

  “Never trust the words of gods or beautiful
women, and never accept something easily given,” Niilán said, repeating his father’s warning to him and his brothers.

  The man laughed. “Wise, but I am neither.”

  “Then who makes this offer?” Niilán asked, loosening his shoulders and preparing himself for a fight. “You? Or someone else?”

  “I am Áigin.” The man inclined a bare head. His shoulder-length hair swung forward then fell back into place as he straightened. “I make the offer, but I act in the service of the High Priest.”

  Niilán stepped back, reluctant to sheath his sword, but also conscious of giving offense.

  “What interest can you or the High Priest have in a common foot soldier?”

  “Your modesty is a shrewd defense, but it’s not necessary with me,” the man said, leaning in toward Niilán. “I know your secret,” he whispered, the smell of anise on his breath. “As does the Vijns.”

  Niilán felt a tremor pass through his limbs. He said nothing, not wanting to give indication one way or another.

  “I understand your reticence,” the man called Áigin said. “It gladdens me to see someone who can keep his tongue. But, as I said, it is not necessary.” Áigin pushed back his cloak to pull something small and rolled from his belt.

  Niilán instinctively shrank back, bumping against the palisade’s uneven stakes, his hand poised above his weapon.

  “You will not need your sword to fend off what is written,” Áigin said, waving the roll in front of him.

  Niilán shook his head as he extended his hand. “I cannot read.”

  In the grey of dawn’s light, Niilán saw the man’s toothy smile overtake his sharp features. “Then let me tell you what it contains.”

  Niilán took the scroll.

  “By order of the High Priest, you, Niilán, will be given command of a chuoði. Your regiment will be tasked with hunting down and killing the remaining Piijkij.”

  “But, I am already part of that regiment,” Niilán began to protest.

  Áigin drew close, his dark eyes narrowed. “Are you willing to remain under the command of someone who asks you to commit treason? Or are you willing to truly answer to just one master? Naturally, the choice is yours. But, between beheading for acts against the Believers and taking the power of command, I would choose the latter.”