Vhalar, 14th, late evening/night
Warm light streamed through the solar.
It cut golden squares across the floor and table, creeping up to his fingers and quill, which tapped now in a frenetic click-click, click-click. Blots of ink clung to the parchment, trembling.
Tutor Maewin heaved another sigh, leaning closer to examine his sums.
No, Miyar, you carry the numeral, the old man clucked, pointing to the numbers with a gnarled hand. You’ve multiplied wrong, see—
He did not see. His eyes roamed somewhere beyond his tutor’s wrinkled face and to the window where the birds chirruped and a wind ruffled the trees, sending them nodding at each other as though in agreement.
I don’t want to learn sums, he snapped with all the petulance of a boy of eight. I want to go outside.
If you want to leave, you must finish your les—
His hand struck out in a pale blur. The ink toppled, bleeding over the table and through the parchment.
No, he screamed, kicking his legs.
No, no, no, the solar echoed.
Tutor Maewin’s face grew very still. He had the skin of a withered peach, inset with sharp black eyes; and as he dared to look up, they seemed to widen with suppressed anger. And then his pupils dilated — kept on till it ate the whites of his eyes, rendering them the darkness of a skull’s — with a screech of a chair Miyar wobbled back, clutching the table. But it was slippery with ink — bleeding ink! — a void that covered the wood and slicked his hands, running down to the fine marble floor and threading like black veins, and when he looked up his tutor’s mouth opened, deep and dark, howling in a scream.
And he fell, then — his stomach flipped as he sailed through empty air, Maewin’s face looming above like a rotting moon. The scream filled him, rang in his bones and soul and sang in his body till he realized it was coming from him. The flesh of the man above him rippled like a sail, torn apart by an unseen wind. And he fell, and fell, and fell — till the ground hit his back and came springing around him.
No, the walls screamed. No, no, no.
The darkness seemed to take form, a buzzing matter he could not see but he could feel, sending his heart to galloping. The presence descended on him, seizing his wrists, and of a sudden he could not move, the breath dying in his throat; he felt a wetness in his mouth, a pushing tongue like a snake, and gagged, but it only pressed him ever further. He could smell the sour tang of flesh and wine, a feverish sweat rubbing against his body.
No! that scream rang again, high and distorted, a voice keening from a tunnel. The darkness grinned above.
Have mercy, he sobbed, but none came; his lips could not form the words, his tongue leaden, the voice stolen from him. Chains clinked in the gloom — far, far, then closer, till he heard its s-ss-scrape against the floor, a metallic serpent making its advance. Clinking, screaming, the vile scent of blood.
And he woke.
The fire pulsed low, half-smoldered to charcoal; only the moonlight struggled thinly through the slats of his blinds. For a moment he thought he saw the massive silhouette of a man looming across the room, and his heart skipped. After a few seconds it resolved itself into his fireplace once again, transformed into cobbled stone and a stone shelf.
A cold sweat covered his body. The sheets had been kicked into a ball by his feet, nearly hanging off his bed.
The sorcerer trembled, blinking overmuch. After a few moments his breathing slowed, but his heart still pounded, skittering like a rat against his ribs. Miyar wiped his hands over his face, drawing in a deep breath. Nothing. There is nothing there. He is gone, he reminded himself, but it was feeble comfort. Rising on trembling legs, the man crept to his fireplace, struggling with the poker. The dim flames clung to life, begging to be helped up like a weary friend; he scrounged some tinder, and the fire leapt off the crumbling wood and onto the sticks, crackling gratefully. He watched it a while, clutching his elbows, his eyes glassy with flame. After a time his nerves calmed enough for him to rise and dress, fastening a cloak with fumbling hands.
There would be no sleep tonight.
Raucous laughter came from the taverns, islands of light and heat in the rambling cobbles and crooked buildings. He walked without paying much attention to where he was going — here, a brothel strung with red lights and smiling, toothless whores — there, the abandoned, reeking clusters of fish stalls — shops closed and shuttered for the night — students stumbling home, blind with drink and slurring at him for directions — he weaved around them all, circling aimlessly like a lost gull, till at last he came upon a shallow rise of steps that wrapped around a hill. The stones were large and uneven, hewn from the cliffs, though some attempt had been made to bolster them with wood. Strings of lanterns escorted the path, though in truth they did not need it; the moonlight shone bright enough, illuminating the path.
By the time he reached the top he was somewhat out of breath, legs burning in protest, but the view was worth it. A cursory scan told him no one else was here. Good. I can mope uninterrupted, it seems.
Perhaps once it had been a watch tower or some such; but the building had long been torn down, its only evidence a few foundation stones and the carcass of walls. Elsewise it had been converted into a small park with a view of the sea; the grass was soft underfoot, the breeze fresh and balmy. In the daytime it was a fine place to read a book or get away from the tangled streets and noise; at sunset it was a place for lovers to steal kisses and share a view, but it was long past the hour for that. No — it was perfectly calm now, a tad chilly without the leaning buildings to trap the heat. Miyar tightened the cloak about him, fighting off a chill.
To keep his heat, he stepped slowly towards the outlook; the moonlight struck diamonds off the black sea, and above the sky was peppered with winking stars. He watched them awhile, trying to hunt for some knowledge of constellations. Surely he had known them once, but the memory was faded now, locked away in some other time. At length he decided to make his own.
That one looks like a horse’s arse, he thought, amber eyes half-lidding. And that one… a pot — no, that’s dreadfully boring — perhaps a pissing man—
A noise broke him out of his amateur astrology. There were heavy footsteps — a presence — and in a whirl of a cloak he spun around, fingers clutching instinctively for the dagger beneath his sleeve. Who the bloody stars is out here?
He forced a startled laugh, one hand fanning across his chest while the other remained hidden in his cloak.
“Gods, you nearly scared the piss out of m—” he cut off, his grin shattering; his amber eyes widened instead. He’d expected a drunk or, gods forbid, a thief, but instead the sorriest creature he’d ever seen hunched before him, clearly in pain. His mouth popped open in surprise, momentarily empty of words. Fates be damned.
Warm light streamed through the solar.
It cut golden squares across the floor and table, creeping up to his fingers and quill, which tapped now in a frenetic click-click, click-click. Blots of ink clung to the parchment, trembling.
Tutor Maewin heaved another sigh, leaning closer to examine his sums.
No, Miyar, you carry the numeral, the old man clucked, pointing to the numbers with a gnarled hand. You’ve multiplied wrong, see—
He did not see. His eyes roamed somewhere beyond his tutor’s wrinkled face and to the window where the birds chirruped and a wind ruffled the trees, sending them nodding at each other as though in agreement.
I don’t want to learn sums, he snapped with all the petulance of a boy of eight. I want to go outside.
If you want to leave, you must finish your les—
His hand struck out in a pale blur. The ink toppled, bleeding over the table and through the parchment.
No, he screamed, kicking his legs.
No, no, no, the solar echoed.
Tutor Maewin’s face grew very still. He had the skin of a withered peach, inset with sharp black eyes; and as he dared to look up, they seemed to widen with suppressed anger. And then his pupils dilated — kept on till it ate the whites of his eyes, rendering them the darkness of a skull’s — with a screech of a chair Miyar wobbled back, clutching the table. But it was slippery with ink — bleeding ink! — a void that covered the wood and slicked his hands, running down to the fine marble floor and threading like black veins, and when he looked up his tutor’s mouth opened, deep and dark, howling in a scream.
And he fell, then — his stomach flipped as he sailed through empty air, Maewin’s face looming above like a rotting moon. The scream filled him, rang in his bones and soul and sang in his body till he realized it was coming from him. The flesh of the man above him rippled like a sail, torn apart by an unseen wind. And he fell, and fell, and fell — till the ground hit his back and came springing around him.
No, the walls screamed. No, no, no.
The darkness seemed to take form, a buzzing matter he could not see but he could feel, sending his heart to galloping. The presence descended on him, seizing his wrists, and of a sudden he could not move, the breath dying in his throat; he felt a wetness in his mouth, a pushing tongue like a snake, and gagged, but it only pressed him ever further. He could smell the sour tang of flesh and wine, a feverish sweat rubbing against his body.
No! that scream rang again, high and distorted, a voice keening from a tunnel. The darkness grinned above.
Have mercy, he sobbed, but none came; his lips could not form the words, his tongue leaden, the voice stolen from him. Chains clinked in the gloom — far, far, then closer, till he heard its s-ss-scrape against the floor, a metallic serpent making its advance. Clinking, screaming, the vile scent of blood.
And he woke.
***
Miyar launched into consciousness with a muffled yelp, launching up in the darkness.The fire pulsed low, half-smoldered to charcoal; only the moonlight struggled thinly through the slats of his blinds. For a moment he thought he saw the massive silhouette of a man looming across the room, and his heart skipped. After a few seconds it resolved itself into his fireplace once again, transformed into cobbled stone and a stone shelf.
A cold sweat covered his body. The sheets had been kicked into a ball by his feet, nearly hanging off his bed.
The sorcerer trembled, blinking overmuch. After a few moments his breathing slowed, but his heart still pounded, skittering like a rat against his ribs. Miyar wiped his hands over his face, drawing in a deep breath. Nothing. There is nothing there. He is gone, he reminded himself, but it was feeble comfort. Rising on trembling legs, the man crept to his fireplace, struggling with the poker. The dim flames clung to life, begging to be helped up like a weary friend; he scrounged some tinder, and the fire leapt off the crumbling wood and onto the sticks, crackling gratefully. He watched it a while, clutching his elbows, his eyes glassy with flame. After a time his nerves calmed enough for him to rise and dress, fastening a cloak with fumbling hands.
There would be no sleep tonight.
***
Even in the godsforsaken hours of the night, Scavoris offered something to do. Raucous laughter came from the taverns, islands of light and heat in the rambling cobbles and crooked buildings. He walked without paying much attention to where he was going — here, a brothel strung with red lights and smiling, toothless whores — there, the abandoned, reeking clusters of fish stalls — shops closed and shuttered for the night — students stumbling home, blind with drink and slurring at him for directions — he weaved around them all, circling aimlessly like a lost gull, till at last he came upon a shallow rise of steps that wrapped around a hill. The stones were large and uneven, hewn from the cliffs, though some attempt had been made to bolster them with wood. Strings of lanterns escorted the path, though in truth they did not need it; the moonlight shone bright enough, illuminating the path.
By the time he reached the top he was somewhat out of breath, legs burning in protest, but the view was worth it. A cursory scan told him no one else was here. Good. I can mope uninterrupted, it seems.
Perhaps once it had been a watch tower or some such; but the building had long been torn down, its only evidence a few foundation stones and the carcass of walls. Elsewise it had been converted into a small park with a view of the sea; the grass was soft underfoot, the breeze fresh and balmy. In the daytime it was a fine place to read a book or get away from the tangled streets and noise; at sunset it was a place for lovers to steal kisses and share a view, but it was long past the hour for that. No — it was perfectly calm now, a tad chilly without the leaning buildings to trap the heat. Miyar tightened the cloak about him, fighting off a chill.
To keep his heat, he stepped slowly towards the outlook; the moonlight struck diamonds off the black sea, and above the sky was peppered with winking stars. He watched them awhile, trying to hunt for some knowledge of constellations. Surely he had known them once, but the memory was faded now, locked away in some other time. At length he decided to make his own.
That one looks like a horse’s arse, he thought, amber eyes half-lidding. And that one… a pot — no, that’s dreadfully boring — perhaps a pissing man—
A noise broke him out of his amateur astrology. There were heavy footsteps — a presence — and in a whirl of a cloak he spun around, fingers clutching instinctively for the dagger beneath his sleeve. Who the bloody stars is out here?
He forced a startled laugh, one hand fanning across his chest while the other remained hidden in his cloak.
“Gods, you nearly scared the piss out of m—” he cut off, his grin shattering; his amber eyes widened instead. He’d expected a drunk or, gods forbid, a thief, but instead the sorriest creature he’d ever seen hunched before him, clearly in pain. His mouth popped open in surprise, momentarily empty of words. Fates be damned.