Dereek khn
٥ Korunasykli: ٢٢ Days after the Red Storm at Westsong
Methias seated himself on the cool stone floor, the small skull drifting down with him. Its base still touched the pool of standing shadow from which it had first emerged. The rest of it lay on its side atop his left thigh. His sense was that the child bound up in the skull was still fearful—still attempting to find his or her equilibrium.
Well, I’ve plenty of time for that. No fear. If the proverbial hourglass empties, we’ll just turn it over.
Apparently, contact with his thigh was enough to keep the other skulls at bay, at least for the moment. The room had remained silent for perhaps ten minutes.
He’d kept his hand resting along the skull’s ancient crown and its left cheek. Quite suddenly he realized that at some point he’d begun stroking its surface… In much the same way one might soothe any child, I suppose. When had he started doing that?
“Where are…” the skull paused, as if reconsidering whether to ask or not.
The sound almost made Methias jump. In truth, he, himself, had been trying to work out how, or even when, to start the conversation they needed to have.
Patience paves the path once more. It had been a favorite phrase of his master, Emil’s. It’d become one of Jannon’s favorites, too, once he’d heard me say it. He pushed that memory gently aside.
“Where are…?” he prompted, trying not to push. He was rewarded with a tired chuckle—brief and half-hearted.
“Where … did you come from?”
Methias looked down, meaning to smile. The sight of the small skull threatened to change that smile into a glower born of sadness and rage. That wouldn’t do. The reaction might have been caused by the sight of the small skull, but it was directed at the thrice curs-ed Shimmering Song. This child won’t know that, though. So… masks on. He closed his eyes and worked to collect his thoughts before answering.
“Where was I born, do you mean? Where was I raised?”
“Mmhmm.”
“My youth was in Traead. It’s a strange place but full of good people with generous hearts.”
“Strange how?”
“They’re very pious. Do you know that word?”
“Yes, Lord.”
“Methias.” He saw no need to force formality on the … girl? Boy? He still couldn’t be sure.
“Meth-eye-ussssss…” It sounded like the word had something of an alien taste to it, though apparently not a sour one.
“So they call me. Either it’s my name, or it’s an old word that means something foolish or slow. Everyone’s been shouting it at me since I was small.”
This elicited a more genuine giggle.
“What do I call you?”
A long period of silence met this question.
“Haven’t fallen asleep on me, have you?”
“No…”
Methias waited a bit longer, but when nothing further seemed forthcoming, he spoke again.
“It wasn’t a trick question, but I suppose you don’t have to answer it honestly. You can make something up… if it pleases you. Either that or I shall have to. I suppose I can call you radish girl or horse boy if you like.”
Another giggle. “I like horse boy, but if you use it too much, it’ll make me sad.”
“Oh?”
“I can’t ride anymore. I love riding horses.”
He, apparently. He seemed more frustrated than sad, which Methias took for a good enough sign for now.
“Do you have a better suggestion?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well,” Methias made his voice playful, “you can’t be Meth-eye-usss. That’ll just be confusing.”
Another giggle.
“My sister Nían used to call me Sleara.”
“Well, Sleara,” he risked being wrong, “brother of Nían, we’re as well met as may be.”
“We are, I think.” Sleara’s voice sounded unsure, but hopeful.
“So, you know—”
“…The word pious? Yes. It’s a human word. It means worshipful or devoted… something like that.”
Methias arched his brows. A human word?
“That’s as good a definition as I could’ve offered.” He kept his voice light. “I confess I’ve never heard the name Sleara, nor Nían.”
“I’ve never heard the name Methias, either.” Was that cheek … or honesty?
“Well, the folk of Traead are pious, as I say. They spend a good deal of time each week in prayer, and pay honor and homage to Dannus, Hyrro, and Zarec—their three patrons.”
“That isn’t strange. Foolish, maybe, but not strange.”
What an absurdly dismissive tone. “…Foolish?”
“Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
“As you say.”
After a long pause, Sleara spoke up again. He sounded genuine enough, but there was a strangely knowing tone underpinning his words.
“I am sorry, Methias. I didn’t—I don’t mean to insult you.”
“And so you haven’t.”
“I don’t mean to insult your people, either.” And still, there was that underpinning of … awareness? No, though it was close to that.
Well, there’ll be time enough to solve that particular mystery.
Methias allowed a small chuckle to pass his lips. “And again, you haven’t. I said I spent my youth in Traead.”
“You … were born elsewhere?”
“I was. My first memories are on an island far from here.”
Sleara brightened. “I was born on an island, too. Rímhril.”
Methias frowned, thinking. He knew that word, but he’d no idea why.
“What was yours like?” Sleara pressed him. His voice was bright and engaged … and quick. “Was it warm? Cold? Green? Were there many people?” A pause. “Were there many horses?”
Methias laughed. “It was, and still is, both green and grey.” He felt a soft smile settle onto his face as he pictured his long home. “The weather is almost always mild—the winds warmed and welcoming by the time they reach the great city. And the city? Ohhh Sleara… that place is a waking dream. Towers climb high into the sky, connected by broad bridges near their crowns. Those bridges cross over, under, and through one another, so that from the ground they form intricate patterns against the firmament. The air is sweet and clean, the rains gentle, and the song of the streets by sun or star is full of vigor and wonder…” He could almost see it—almost touch it. “In that place, the mind matters so, so much more than the miser’s muse.”
He trailed off, uncertain how to finish or even how best to contend with his suddenly roiling emotions. Thoughts of home meant thoughts of her… of Nybrynci. And Brynci? Her name… the memory of her face? Her voice? They were bright brands of pain that never truly faded.
“That sounds like Now… Nowwwwsh…”
“Nausha.” Methias’s voice was raw, suddenly. “Nausha is its name.” He swallowed, leaning his head back—willing his eyes not to overspill. The attempt failed, predictably, and he drew his free bright hand up to drive his tears away. He wasn’t sobbing, but even a year later, the ache was still fresh.
“You miss it.” This wasn’t a question, but was spoken with a gentleness that was hard to hear.
“I’m fortunate to have known it for as long as I did. Nothing’s meant to last forever, of course. So we take our joy where we can find it.”
Sleara seemed to dwell on that idea for a moment. His voice was soft when he next spoke—almost hesitant.
“I’ve been there… to your island. It was hard to walk any-where.”
Methias laughed in spite of himself. “Kept looking up, did you?”
“Yes! Up, around, down—anywhere and everywhere. My mother threatened to tether me to her wrist if I didn’t mind my surroundings.”
“You’d have been in good company, Sleara. Even apprentices have to be tethered for the first week or so, unless they were born on the island.”
“So you’re a caster from Now Shou.”
“Nausha. Now-shah.”
Sleara repeated the pronunciation twice more before getting it right.
“But you are, yes? A caster from Nausha?”
“I am.” Methias was grinning. The boy’s enthusiasm was making it difficult to hold on to misery. “Why?”
“Can… can you free me?”
“Do you want pudding or porridge?”
“I … can’t eat, Methias.” Sleara’s voice wasn’t pitiful. It was almost pitying. He sounded as if he were speaking to a much younger and clearly slow-witted child.
Methias laughed, though the laughter was kindly.
“Well? I can’t!” This was carried on an almost reluctant giggle.
“Porridge isn’t something most folk look forward to eating, is it?”
“No. No it is not.” Sleara paused, then spoke more slowly. “But it keeps you for the morning’s chores. Pudding, though, makes even angry folk smile. I see. May I … have both?”
Methias nodded. “Exactly. So? First?”
“Pudding of course.”
“Naturally.” He sniggered. “I expect so. There’s almost always a way.”
Sleara’s next words came out on what sounded like a smiling sigh.
“Alright. Is it the porridge that you don’t know how, or how long it’ll take, then?”
“It is. I can’t tell you more than that, sadly. There’s still so much about The Cage I don’t know. Hells, I didn’t know how to stop the lot of you from screaming as if the place were on fire.”
“Oh! Is that why you were singing?”
Methias smiled. “It was why you were singing. I had to find at least some way to interact.”
“So you chose singing?”
“The rite only works on people who understand the caster. Most of the others trapped here don’t speak the Trader’s Tongue. Just you and one other. All anyone could hear was a mass of laughing, screaming, shouting voices. We had no idea what any of you were saying or why you were saying it so loudly. Come to that, I still don’t know.”
Sleara made a soft sound of understanding. “Most of us are just mad, I think. When one starts shouting, others do too. Some of us have been here since before I was born.”
“How do you know that?”
Again he made a considering sound. “If I try, I can hear them. It’s hard to single one voice out, though. But Lósgífel? She rarely spoke to more than one of us at a time. I wonder if that’s why she sang so often…”
“Who is Lósgífel?”
“She called herself my nimtrémna.”
“Mother’s sister. I know the Trader’s Tongue has a word for that, but—”
Methias made a soft ahh sound and smiled. “Aunt. She was your aunt?”
“She called herself that, but my ñimá had no sisters.”
Ñimá… Ahhh! So, you’re an elf-child. Well, that solves that particular riddle.
“Was it she who trapped you here?”
“I don’t know. I think so.” Sleara’s voice became distant, tinged with regret. “She was the first outline I saw when I woke up here.”
“Outline?”
“It’s like looking up at someone with the sun directly behind them.”
“As if I needed another reason to set you free.” He sighed. “Well, at least I know the old singer’s name now.”
“Is she … coming back?”
“No.”
“Did you kill her?”
“She was already dead, Sleara. She just hadn’t stopped walking or singing yet. But yes. I put an end to her. She left me little choice.” His voice had become bleak, but it was steady enough.
After a moment, Sleara spoke up again.
“I can tell you what I remember, if that’ll help.” His voice was cautious but hopeful. “I know that I can help you understand what the others are saying. I just … don’t want you to grow too used to us here. I know we can be of use, but…”
“But you don’t want to be here any longer than you must.”
“I want to join the rest of me. It feels like I’m wearing a thick blanket against the cold—one that’s too tight for me to move in. It doesn’t hurt, but I need to either move or finally sleep.” He paused, considering, then spoke a final word on the matter. “I’ll help you, Methias, but … I know I can’t hold you to any oath, but…”
“Peace, Sleara, Nían’s brother. I give you my word that I’ll do everything in my power to free you and the others. I’d be glad of your help, but one way or the other, I intend to free you from this damnable cage.”
A moment of silence stretched out before Sleara spoke again. “Stand up, Methias. I’ll tell you what I remember.”