Time's Demon

by D. B. Jackson

  He lay still until he spotted a hand hovering before him. He grasped it and allowed Tache to pull him to his feet.

  “We’re even,” the boy said. “That was… I didn’t expect that.”

  “I did. I knew you’d pound me bloody.”

  Tache blinked, then laughed. “Let’s get you cleaned up. Or we’ll both be scrubbing privies until Kheraya’s Awakening.”

  They walked back to the boy’s dormitory, trailed by Tache’s followers and Cresten’s friends. They washed the blood from Cresten’s face and burned his bloodstained shirt in the hearth. The next day, several masters scrutinized his cuts and bruises, but most said nothing. He told those who did ask that he had been practicing hand combat with a friend, and still had much to learn.

  The lone exception was Albon, who lifted an eyebrow at the sight of him and said, “Well, that didn’t take long. She’s been gone, what? Five days now?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Keep practicing, Mister Padkar. You’ll get the hang of it.”

  So he did. Over the course of his second year and into his third, the movements and tactics drilled into him by the weapons master, and reinforced by his sparring sessions with Vahn, imbedded themselves in his mind and muscles. By his twelfth birthday, he had learned to fight not from memory, but from instinct.

  His blade work improved as well. With a sword in hand, his long limbs and lean frame proved an advantage. He wasn’t as strong as many of the other boys, but he could reach them before they reached him. Once he graduated to steel, he would need more strength. For now, with wooden swords, height was more important than power.

  He spent most of his time with Vahn, Lenna, and a few of the other novitiates in their group. To his surprise, his fight with Tache had bound them into an unlikely friendship. Tache often invited Cresten to join his group, and not merely as a follower. They sat together at meals, practiced sword work together. The older boy asked Cresten for help with Aiyanthan, which Cresten spoke fluently. Tache even gave Cresten a new nickname: Whip.

  “You’re skinny and you’re fast,” Tache said, “and you can do more damage than a person might think.”

  Cresten had to admit that he liked it.

  Vahn didn’t approve of Cresten’s friendship with the older boy. After a qua’turn during which he and Cresten didn’t share a single meal, he said as much.

  “Just because he doesn’t want to pummel you anymore, that doesn’t mean you have to be his friend.”

  “I want to be his friend. He’s pretty nice, once you get to know him.”

  Vahn’s eyebrows lifted in skepticism. Cresten didn’t pursue the point.

  In truth, Tache wasn’t nice. He could be charming and funny, and surprisingly clever. But he spoke ill of other novitiates, and nearly all the masters and mistresses. He longed to be summoned to the royal court in Oaqamar, not only because he coveted the autarch’s gold, but also because he wished to Span for the most powerful man in Islevale.

  “The palace sells us for gold, right?” Tache said one night, as they walked together through the middle courtyard. “They get as much as they can from the courts. So why shouldn’t we want the same? Gold and power. That’s what the world is about.”

  Cresten hadn’t given much thought to where he would choose to serve, given the opportunity to decide for himself. He still didn’t know if he would ever be called to a court. The masters who specialized in Spanning, Crossing, and Walking only began to train novitiates when the children turned twelve.

  Cresten’s father had told him he would be a Spanner, mostly because the oldest of his father’s aunts was one. Despite what Cresten told the chancellor upon his arrival in the palace, notwithstanding things his father had said to anyone who would listen, Cresten had shown no sign of being a Spanner, or any other sort of Traveler. The tests to which he was subjected soon after coming to Windhome had been inconclusive.

  He did know that his father profited from sending him to the palace, and the palace would profit if and when they sent him to a court. Didn’t this prove Tache’s point about gold?

  “He wants to go to Oaqamar?” Vahn said, when Cresten related the conversation. “Really?”

  “That’s what he told me.”

  Lenna shook her head. “Where he wants to go is…” She made a small motion, brushing away the remark. “Who cares? I mean, the autarch is a pig, but that’s not important. What bothers me is that he thinks being a Traveler is his path to wealth. That’s just wrong.”

  She was thirteen now, and well into her training with Master Denmys. To the delight of Chancellor Samorij and the masters and mistresses, the promise of her early tests had been confirmed after her previous birthday: she was that rarest of all Travelers, a Walker. The palace hadn’t seen one since the last was summoned to Westisle four years before. Cresten thought her status as a Walkerin-training imbued her opinions with added weight.

  He would never have said as much to Tache. Nor did his diminished opinion of the older boy keep him from spending time in Tache’s company. His friendship with Tache enhanced his status. It reminded others of their early confrontation, of Wink’s protection, and of his bravery in facing Tache after Wink left. He sensed in Vahn’s disapproval, the merest hint of envy. And he believed he had risen in Lenna’s esteem since his second fight with Tache.

  In recent turns it had occurred to him that Lenna was quite pretty. Beautiful, in fact. How had he not seen this before? Her skin was the color of stained cherry wood, her eyes large and dark and liquid. She had silken bronze hair that she often wore tied back from her oval face. She was taller than most novitiates their age, including Vahn, but not quite as tall as Cresten. He thought she liked this about him.

  Cresten found excuses to spend time with her, and sensed that she liked this as well. Sometimes they took walks together through the palace grounds – the two of them, without Vahn. He knew Vahn resented this. Probably his friend cared for Lenna as much as he did. But Vahn had lots of friends. Boys and girls gravitated to him. It was harder for Cresten, despite his renown.

  Besides, young as he was, he knew that older novitiates sometimes paired off. Paired. Two, not three. Cresten didn’t want to see his friend hurt, but neither did he want to be hurt himself. The three of them still studied together and ate most of their meals together. But on occasion, Cresten contrived to spend time alone with Lenna. And she allowed it.

  On a mild, moonless night late in Sipar’s Stirring, the two of them sat in the lower courtyard, staring at a velvet sky, watching for falling stars. They didn’t say much. Now and then, one of them pointed up at a silvery streak.

  “You’re a Walker.”

  They both jumped at the voice and scrambled to their feet. Cresten’s pulse pounded. Lenna stood so close to him that their shoulders brushed.

  “Who’s there?” Lenna asked, the words tremulous. “Who are you?”

  “I can tell you’re a Walker. Your years are altered. You’ve been practicing.”

  The voice was that of a child, a girl. She stood a short distance from them, a shadowed form barely visible in the darkness. Light hair shifted in the soft wind, and ghostly eyes reflected the faint glow of distant torches. She wore rags; her feet were bare. When the breeze lifted, it carried the sick, sweet stench of rotting meat.

  “Where did you come from?” Lenna asked, taking half a step in the girl’s direction.

  Cresten put out a hand to stop her.

  “He fears me. He should.”

  “Why? Why should we be afraid of you?”

  “Not you,” the girl said. She pointed a slender finger at Cresten. “Only him.”

  Again he caught the elusive, putrid scent riding the wind. “Do you smell that?” he whispered to Lenna.

  The young girl’s dim features resolved into a scowl. “That’s rude.”

  He shouldn’t have been afraid. She was tiny. Yet her tone froze his blood.

  Lenna lifted both hands, a gesture intended to calm. “He wasn’t saying it�
��s you.”

  “Yes, he was. And it is.”

  Lenna let her hands drop, edged closer to Cresten again. “What are you?” she whispered.

  “My kind are called Tirribin. We’re–”

  “Time demons.”

  Cresten glanced at Lenna, wanting to ask what time demons were.

  “That’s a human term,” the girl said in the same tone she’d used to call him rude.

  “I- I’m sorry.”

  The girl glared. “I was going to say that we’re able to sense your years. Yours are… confused, altered. His aren’t. And he’s young, so they’d be quite lovely to feed on.”

  “No!” Lenna said. “I have a riddle!”

  The girl eased forward, leaning in their direction, her hands clasped together. “A riddle?” she said, longing in her question.

  “That’s right. Only if you swear you won’t hurt either of us, ever.”

  “Yes, all right.” She wrung her hands, eyes wide. “What is it? Please.”

  “We have your word?”

  “Yes!” the demon said, urgency in her tone. “I give you my word: I’ll never harm either of you. The riddle! Quickly!”

  “All right. It goes like this:

  A carpenter, I build without hammer or nail,

  A traveler, I journey without wheel or sail;

  An artist, my work is the most elegant lair,

  A hunter, I rely on the deadliest snare.”

  The girl drew a gasping breath, her head twitching side to side, her lips moving. Cresten thought he heard her repeat Lenna’s rhyme.

  He bent his head near to Lenna’s and whispered, “Shouldn’t we get away from here?”

  “You should. You’re the one in danger. Tirribin don’t prey on Walkers. Our years are different, and they feel a… a kinship with us.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “My mother’s a Walker. She told me about them. She also taught me the riddle, just in case. You should go.”

  “We both should.”

  “No. If she can’t work out the riddle, and I’m not here to give her the answer, our bargain is broken. Then we both might be in danger.”

  “Well, if you’re going to stay, I will, too.”

  Lenna’s eyes met his. “That’s… that’s sweet of you.”

  Their gazes remained locked, until Cresten realized the demon had ceased her mumbling. He turned, found her studying them.

  “You’re young to be in love, aren’t you?”

  He colored to the roots of his hair.

  “We’re not in love,” Lenna said. “Because you’re right, we are young.”

  “He’s in love. I can tell. I thought love was something that adult humans did, not children.”

  “We’re not–”

  “Can you engage in the act of love at your age?”

  “That’s not–” Lenna shook her head, clearly flustered. “Work out your riddle, before I tell you the answer and ruin it for you!”

  The demon eyed them, then lifted a shoulder and went back to her mutterings and the strange movements of her head.

  Lenna stared at the ground, refusing to look Cresten’s way. She had moved away from him. Not far, but enough to keep him rooted to where he stood. Cresten watched the demon, afraid of what she might do. Every so often, he peeked at Lenna, but she remained as she was, silent and withdrawn.

  Eventually, the girl approached them, hands intertwined and twisting.

  “What is it?” Her voice was pitched higher than before. “You have to tell me what it is.”

  “A spider,” Lenna said, the word coming out low and flat. “The answer is a spider.”

  The Tirribin closed her eyes and let out a sigh. “A good riddle. Very good. You must ask me another some day. That was… exquisite.”

  Lenna didn’t answer, nor did Cresten.

  The girl frowned. “Something’s happened. What’s the matter?”

  You happened, Cresten wanted to say. You came and ruined everything.

  Lenna fixed a brittle smile on her lips. “Everything’s fine. We have to go now.”

  The demon’s puzzlement deepened. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make your love stop.”

  “We already told you, we aren’t in love.” Lenna raised a hand in farewell. “Goodnight.” She started away.

  Cresten followed.

  “Droë.”

  “What?”

  “That’s my name: Droë.”

  “Oh. I’m Lenna. This is Cresten.”

  The demon nodded. “All right. Goodnight, then.”

  They continued toward the middle courtyard. Lenna strode with purpose, her arms crossed over her chest. Cresten walked beside her, dismal, unsure of what to say. He’s in love. I can tell… He winced at the truth of this, and at the things Droë said next. He’d done nothing wrong, but that didn’t matter. Lenna’s embarrassment, and his own, if he was honest with himself, had opened a chasm between them. One he had no idea how to cross.

  He followed Lenna to the entrance to the Windward Keep, because he didn’t know what else to do.

  She paused on the threshold, seemed to force herself to face him.

  “Goodnight, Cresten.”

  “Goodnight. I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”

  “Of course. We have lessons, and training.”

  “And I’ll see you at breakfast?”

  She hesitated. “Yes, I suppose so.”

  Not the answer he’d wanted, but what could he do?

  “All right then. Goodnight.” He’d already said that.

  He spun away and stalked across the open space to the Leeward Keep. He felt he’d been robbed of something precious.

  Cresten lay awake for much of the night, trying to convince himself that their embarrassment would pass, and that everything between them would go back to how it had been.

  It didn’t. Lenna, Vahn, and he sat together at breakfast, but what little she said she directed at Vahn. Vahn couldn’t conceal his pleasure at this development. He wasn’t the type to gloat, but he made no attempt to draw Cresten into their conversation. Just as Cresten hadn’t scrupled to draw Lenna away from the other boy, now Vahn did all he could to win her back. Cresten couldn’t blame him. Rather, he focused all his ire and resentment on the time demon.

  Her questions had been foolish, mortifying, even inappropriate. He and Lenna were children, and she was asking them about… about things no child should have to discuss. No wonder Lenna was humiliated; no wonder she could barely bring herself to look at him.

  For days he brooded, watching Vahn and Lenna grow closer, feeling ever more superfluous to both of them. It was like falling down a stairway one tread at a time. Each new impact jarred him, and he knew the next would hurt more, but he didn’t know how to stop or how to shield himself from the pain. All he could do was fall.

  After a qua’turn, Cresten gave up eating with his friends. His presence made Lenna uncomfortable, and being with the two of them made him feel like a third oar on a dory.

  At that evening’s meal, he sat alone far from Vahn and Lenna’s table. The palace chef had prepared roasted fowl with baviseed and greens. It was one of Cresten’s favorites, but he picked at the food, hardly eating.

  “Why aren’t you with that pretty Walker?”

  Cresten peered up from his platter. Tache and his friends stood around him, their own platters in hand.

  He shrugged.

  The others sat, Tache taking the spot beside Cresten. His friends resumed conversations of their own, but not Tache.

  “I see her,” he said. “She’s with your friend, Marcoji.”

  “I know.” He had no interest in discussing this part of his life with the older boy, not that Tache would care.

  “I thought she fancied you, not him.”

  “She did, I think. Once.”

  Tache smirked. “You foul it up? Say something stupid?” “Not me, but that’s what happened.”

  “What do you mean, not you? Did someone backbit
e you? Someone I know?”

  This was part of Tache’s charm, the thing about him that Vahn and Lenna couldn’t have grasped without knowing him as Cresten did. He was mean and full of bluster and motivated by pride, greed, and spite. But once he accepted someone as a friend, as he had Cresten, he was loyal to a fault.

  “Tell me who it was, Whip. I’ll beat him bloody.”

  “It’s not like that. I don’t think you should get involved.”

  Tache’s expression frosted. “You think I couldn’t take him?”

  “It’s not a him. It’s not even–” He broke off, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

  “Not even a what?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Cresten reached for a piece of bread. Tache seized him by the wrist, grinding the bones in a pincer grip.

  “Ow!”

  “Not even a what?” he demanded again.

  Cresten yanked his hand away. “Not even a person,” he said, rubbing his wrist, and not caring that he sounded like a sullen child. “We were talking to a Tirribin.”

  Tache’s ire gave way to calculation, and thinly masked eagerness.

  “A Tirribin,” he said. “You’re sure?”

  “Lenna was sure. I’d never heard of them before.”

  “Of course. A time demon would be interested in your Walker friend. Anything having to do with time.”

  Cresten nodded, pretending he knew, hoping Tache would say more. Perhaps if he learned about Droë and her kind, he might find a way back into Lenna’s good graces.

  That avid gleam lingered in the boy’s eyes. “They’re a menace, of course, like all demons. But old as they are, they’re more like children than like other Ancients, so how dangerous can they be?”

  “Lenna seemed pretty scared. I think they’re more dangerous than they look.”

  “This one was in the palace?” Tache asked, ignoring Cresten’s warning.

  “On the grounds. Lower courtyard.”

  “Interesting,” the boy said. “I wonder if she comes here a lot. If they’re drawn to Walkers, then this would be the place, wouldn’t it? Not recently, maybe, but the palace has seen lots of Walkers over the years. And Tirribin live a long time. Centuries. Maybe more. Imagine the stuff she might know.”