17

Sound.

First he is aware of sound. The trills and calls and roars and hums of the forest creatures. The hiss of something hard moving through leaves.

Then sensation.

It feels as though every part of him is either worn down or rubbed raw. He is desperately thirsty, desperately hungry. His joints grinding as if full of sand. His head throbs. The pain brings with it an awareness that he is moving. But he is not moving. He is lying down. A sharp lance through the throbbing of his head, light hitting his eyelids. Then it is gone. Then it is back. Then it is gone.

He didn’t understand. Not at first. To move and to be still. How could such a thing be? But slowly, his mind put together the pieces of the puzzle. The rhythmic hiss of leaves, the movement-yet-not-movement. There was a definite rhythm to it: a flashing of light, bright and dim and bright again.

He forced his eyes open, suppressing a groan, and found himself looking up at the green canopy of the forest. The light above hidden by interlocking tree branches, breaking through them as he juddered a little way forward. Heard a grunt, felt himself dip to one side. Another noise, wordless yet full of pain and frustration and exhaustion.

The angle of the light above told him it was late in the second eight. He had been unconscious for nearly a full day at least, and was being dragged through the forest by a figure unseen. Though why he did not know. He tried to move but could not. He was bound, tied tightly to a travois.

There was his answer. No doubt he had been found surrounded by richly dressed corpses and someone thought him a fine prize to give to the Rai. One that would make them rich. He could not allow that, but he could also do little about it. Not now. He was as weak as a newborn crownhead. Weaker really, for within moments of birth a crownhead could stand and run. Cahan doubted he could do so much. To save itself the cowl had taken as much from him as it could without killing him. Beneath the wrappings his body would be wasted, his muscles like wireweed wrapped around bone in a corpse yard. His face gaunt and shadowed.

Strength and life would return, given time. It would seep slowly from the ground every time he came into contact with it. It was clever of his captor to wrap him in blankets and tie him to the travois. It would keep him weak for much longer if he had to seep life from the air. Clearly whoever it was knew how to bind a cowl user properly. He felt cold within. Fear.

There would be little mercy for him now.

Then whoever dragged him fell again, and this time he heard them swear.

“Osere below,” they hissed, “I hate this place.” They continued to mutter to themselves as they stood. Then slipped again, this time pushing him against his bonds and he let out a groan, unable to hold the pain in. His captor stopped. He felt them lay the travois down. A face appeared above him, almost hidden beneath a helmet that was actually a little too big for it. “You are alive?” they said. He tried to nod, though if he managed it he was not sure. The world swam around him and he knew it would not be long before the cowl put him to sleep again, to exist in the unspace of the cowl’s mind while it did all it could to keep his flesh alive. The Rai, Vanhu, must have been more powerful than he thought if besting him had taken so much. He should have allowed the cowl to take from the Rai’s life, only a little.

You need me.

Shame, sudden and strong coming upon him.

So many years he had pushed away the cowl, told himself he would not use it no matter what. But in the end, when pressed, he killed without mercy or thought. His last conscious memory was the terrified face of the trion as he walked towards them. The unbearable hunger of the cowl burning inside, the pain as his body struggled to feed it. His captor should take advantage of him now, while he was as weak as a crownhead kit and kill him. It would be best for all.

You need me.

“Here,” a gourd appeared in his vision, “drink. I thought you dead, the whole night you have been out.” His captor did a good job of almost drowning him. Water and fire were two of the few sure deaths for the Cowl-Rai, though they were slow deaths. Cahan moved his head. Choking, panicking. His captor moved back, clearly unsure of what to do now he had refused water. The forester tried to speak. It felt like his words were nothing more than the breeze between saplings, something to be lost in the forest. His captor’s face wavered as Cahan struggled to focus. Then they pulled off their helmet and leaned in close. Putting an ear near his mouth, while being careful not to touch him. Wise: a touch when he was this weak and his cowl could bleed them dry of life.

“Speak again,” they said. “I will help how I can. It is the least I can do after you saved me”

“Saved?” a slow expulsion of the word.

“Oh, Tarl-an-Gig bless you, can you not see? Did they burn out your vision?” Something about the voice, something familiar. “My name is Venn, you saved me in Harnwood.” Cahan could feel them looking at him. “Truthfully, for a moment I thought you would kill me too, you had a face like one of the Osere, come from below to take me. But then you fell, and I knew you only wanted help. I was careful not to touch your skin, like they teach, but I got you on the travois. Now tell me, how do I help?”

The trion.

He had not killed them, and he breathed a little lighter for it. He tried to speak again. It took all he had. Forcing each word from his mouth.

“Lay… me… on… the… ground.” He could not tell if they heard him or not. Everything was become darker, his vision closing in. He felt the trion draw away, felt the world recede, sound melting into one long sigh of wind as he drifted back to darkness.