EDIT: I changed all the maybe up words,
Griff...
CL
*
Shadow Kin
Draft I, 14 Feb 2006
Part I: Counting the Stars
The morning erupted in a glow of fire on the horizon, as the last vestiges of night’s shroud quietly disintegrated. Over the rise of the hills, in a tiny flat valley, the white pebbled trade route running parallel, was the town of Graemeet. But Graemeet was not your typical town full of thatched roofs and stone, no there was no a founded structure in the whole place. Instead it was a sea of white tents; many of the sides, due to the fortunate weather were rolled up, revealing their occupants. The other peculiar thing about Graemeet was that it was neither Sidhe nor Ilen, neither of the great nations of Aea had claimed to this piece tucked aside in the hills. The origins of Graemeet as the Elder’s told was that the lord of Ilen and those of Sidhe agreed on a central meeting place. Since Sidhe often lived in clans, isolated from each other as well as men it was favoured, they kept to their isolation but gleamed the benefits of trade; Ilen the same. It was no small miracle that as war wreaked its havoc, Graemeet remained untouched. As long as you meant no harm, you were welcome. Both Ilen and Sidhe came and went through its tents more like kin than enemies. They boasted the best of what trade towns could offer; a smithy, two inns, a tavern, an apothecary, a temple of Ilen, as well a non-denominational church, a stables, and outfitters, all large tents. Thus was Graemeet, the meeting place of all.
*
Brendis Caith tossed another blood soaked cloth into the wash-basket. Pressing another to his nose, he cursed at its soreness.
“One of these days, they’re gon kill me, you know that.” He growled to no one in particular, resting himself against his bed pillows. Letting his wings- black with sunbursts of dandelion yellow tinged at the edges a light shade lilac- fan out, a bright masterpiece of color antithetical to the white fabric beneath.
Bringing his lengthy legs to fold them underneath, he closed his jade flecked cerulean eyes, focusing back on himself.
The dream had been so real- real in sight, sound, touch and taste. But he could not remember any of it - only that it had felt so real. If Brendis hadn’t known better he have said they were. Focusing on his breathing, his teaching master Morgra’s words penetrated through the silence, ‘Focus is all that separates you from your gift. All one has to do is reach with sufficient effort, looking into themselves for the answer that is always there.’
His dreams had been particularly violent of late, his washing bore truth of that; all the blood bathed cloths. As well as the soreness in his temples and nose. But each time he set himself down and attempted to revisit those dreams, he was impeded by tangible darkness that fell like grains of riverbed sand through his fingers.
This time was no exceptions, and in his frustration Brendis shook himself, it was no use, he just was not strong enough- did not have enough gift - and it was no surprise to the young Seer. Morgra himself had said, even if he was lucky he would never be more than a journeyman. That was why here was here in Graemeet. Having not the family, or means to support himself, Brendis had apprenticed himself to an aging apothecary, a man originally from the Outlands. That had been over four wheels past, before the plagues had decimated the land from Illtyd End to Bardenn, the most western estate of Ilen, to the Sundi plains to the south, and the Great Farr’d to the west and the north. That had been when he still held hope for an end to the madness. But all such thoughts, mere wishes, were lost on him now.
Beyond his small quarters at the back of apothecary’s tent he could hear the quiet beginnings of the day. The elder was probably up in his accustomed place grinding a paste with mortal and pestle. There was rumour that some Ilen lord and his own were heading their way. Brendis suspected Salabrin of wanting to be ready for the worst – as was expected.
Brendis feeling that soon he would be wanted, gathered himself up, and pitched another bloody cloth with the rest.
*
Brendis poking woefully uninterested at his breakfast did not go unseen.
“Who doused your faerie light?”
Brendis glimpsed up at the owner of the cheerful voice: a small bouncing dark haired child, with bright blue eyes.
“Mornin', Liri.”
“Mornin', to you too Breny. Are you going to finish those?” She was staring longingly at the three sausages on his plate, her tiny pink tongue unconsciously flicking out to lick her lips.
He smiled at her, “Nay, Liri, they’re all yours.”
She clasped them in her small, pudgy hands, gobbling them down so rapidly that he wondered if she had received any breakfast at home, or if it was just her youngling appetite. But he supposed if he did not wake each morning to the blood lingering in his senses, he would gobble them up as well.
When she was done, Lirit Zel laved clean her greasy hands with her tongue. Brendis plucked a cloth from the table, and pressed in upon her.
“S’not lady-like licking so, what would Ava think?”
The small child just stuck out her tongue, her sapphire eyes dancing.
Brendis made show of offering the cloth as a token for a lady, “M’Lady Lirit.”
That only served to throw the child into a fit of giggles, but in the end she took it.
*
“The gods only know why you put up with that ruffian.”
Saladrin had returned, basket full of herbs swinging. Lirit had almost collided with the wide-set, browned Outlander as she went bouncing out.
“The gods know many more things that we ever will.” Brendis took the basket, and began to sort the plants on the cutting board.
“That they do.”
“Any news?”
“Just the same, Lord Galisen and his men are expect wit’n the week.”
Brendis glanced up from where he was sorting witch hazel and camphor leaves. “The Governor is lettin’ them inside of Graemeet then.”
He tried not to show his concern. Galisen was known for his hatred of Sidhe which he had no doubt fostered in his men.
“Ai, under the condition that they camp at the bottom of the fallow, and they be unarmed while inside. I doubt Lord Galisen wants to cause trouble, even if he is coming from battle.”
Brendis nodded and bit his lip to keep the thoughts to himself.
“Don’ trouble ye-self now Bren. The Governor won’ let trouble disturb Graemeet or its inhabitants, neither will I.”
But he still felt the underlying fear snagging at his stomach, that trouble would indeed find a host in Brendis Caith.
*
“Brendis, please.” His mother pleaded with her child-son.
At barely six wheel turns Brendis Caith was a runt. He just met his mother’s knee, and she was not fairly tall either. His wingspan measured just short of a rod’s length; but he carried a stubbornness that seemed to plague the entire Caith line.
“Brendis, now, listen to your mother.” Her tone and flustered look commanded his attention, and although he was stubborn he did not want to incur his mother’s wrath.
Righting himself he picked his way across the room to his mother. In her hands was a small wooden box. Snapping the cord around her neck bearing a silver key, she pushed it hastily into the lock. With a click, the box popped open. She stretched out the open box to her son.
“Love, do you know what this is?”
Looking into the box, he saw a flat black stone. Carved into the surface was the etching of the ancient symbol for protection. It seemed so familiar, he had seen it before. Yes, his father had worn it – yes around his neck always, but that had been before, before –
He fixed his large eyes on his mother, “Tat’s Da’s.”
“Now,” she said as she took the stone which was on a leather cord, “You must never let this go, and promise me that you’ll be quiet.”
Confused he just answered, “Yes, mama.”
“Good, now,” she looped the chain around his neck, “Go!” With that she shoved him into one of the cabinets. Faintly he could hear voices, but not in any language he knew.
The voices continued though, until a thunderous knocking almost broke the door of the small house.
“Now remember what I said love.” His mother’s voice found his ears once again.
His mother vanished to answer the door. Brendis, chin on his knees wrapped his arms around himself, the stone trapped between his heart and thigh. The caustic sounds of arguing sounded from the door-way and though he knew not the language, Brendis knew that is was not good. A creeping feeling started up his spine, one of fear and confused. Why had his mother shoved him in this cupboard? Who were those men?
His thoughts were stilled by a scream. Through the crack in the door, he saw his mother fall. A man was wiping the blood from his blade on her new dress. Brendis stared, caught between immense fear at disobeying an order, and recovering his mother. When the man with the bloody sword stalked forward, Brendis shifted against the back of the cupboard. Fear gripped at him, the prickle of tears started in his eyes. But he feared letting his presence known.
After doing a once around the small kitchen, the man turned and spoke to his men, who nodded. Then they were gone. Brendis edging slowly out, so not to give himself away, started towards his mother. Reaching her he tugged at her outstretched arm.
“Mama, come on, hafta git you to a healer.” When she didn’t answer he knelt by her side.
“Mama, Mama.”
And then he saw the blood, the blood that was freely throwing out of a wound on her stomach. It flowed steadily streaming across her brilliantly yellow wings.
He brushed her red curls out of her face then, and shrunk back seeing the lifeless expression.
“Mama, no, Mama, hafta wake up! Mama, I’s so sorry, I listen better…” He rambled, hugging himself, tears now spilling free.
“Mama no!”
Brendis Caith awoke breathing heavily, the dew of tears still on his lashes. Mama… His hand went immediately to the stone around his neck. Mama, why couldn’t I save you?
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