Passing part two
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How long he wept, he did not know, but the moon was bright as a carriage lamp over the bay when he returned to reality, and the sky was peacock blue and green, with the brightest stars glittering strongly. Sunset was gone, and the hearth was dark once more.
Galen was cold by now, and Faunos moved like a man five times his years as he stood and fumbled to light a second lamp. He had lost track of the time. The soldiers would be arriving from Vayal soon -- there was no time, no space to grieve properly when the ruins would be a sea of fire. He must get out, and quickly.
He drank a goatskin dry, sat on the doorstep and watched the ocean until his head began to clear. Selene rode higher, her divine light cold and pure on the immense diamond. He held up his wrist and looked through the stone, at the moon. He felt the Power flow through it and pulse inside him -- it was in his head like half-formed dreams, in his belly life half-woken passion that could explode into ravenous lust, if he allowed it.
Entranced by the pure white moonlight as it fell through the crystal into his half-closed eyes, he breathed deeply and slowly, and for once let it grow. He had performed this exercise only twice, and both times under Galen’s supervision. He knew how his body would shiver with the Power, and tonight he did not try so shut it out.
His eyes fell to the ground before his feet, and he smiled faintly as he saw the pebbles there rolling toward him. Several bobbed up into the air, weightless as feathers in the breeze. He held out his hand and they came to him, danced around his fingers as long as he could concentrate on them. He could make them march in file and cavort like revelers performing the quadrille. Pahrys could do this with tiny sparklets of fire, but Galen had always warned Faunos against trying to be clever with live flame. With the focus on his wrist, fire was easy to conjure, difficult to contain and be rid of. Just once, Galen had let him burn his fingers, and learn the hard way to take care.
Tonight, Faunos no longer cared about the risk. As he thought of Pahrys’s laughing eyes, how his older cousin would entertain a crowd that gathered in the marketplace -- gather up the coppers they threw and then vanish into the shadows with a handsome one, or two -- he saw the first fireflies wink into being among the cavorting pebbles.
Heat seared his palm. He guarded himself with a shield of ice that crystallized out of the air at his whim. Now, he only had to concentrate. Stones and flames wove about each other like dancers at the midsummer bonfires, and he swayed with their rhythm, entranced, making them hurl faster, faster --
The screech of a night bird broke his concentration and the stones fell, the fireflies flickered into nothingness, the ice shattered into a thousand minute snowflakes. Faunos brushed them off his palm. With a soft curse he stood, and turned toward the bird.
It was a raven, perching on the eaves above the door, watching him as if it waited for him to make some decision. Thousands of them had come in with the kites, hawks, vultures, to pick over the ruins. He left the Power begin to throb through him again, and held out his left hand toward the bird. His fingers glowed faintly, as if they were gloved in captive moonlight.
Caught in thrall, the raven came to him, perched on his forearm and fluffed its oily feathers as if his touch was its delight. He petted it for some time, and at last released it. A look of astonishment was on its face as it flapped away into the darkness.
“All of this is for nothing, Galen,” he whispered to the night. “Zeheft is only a memory, it can’t return any more than you can. And as for me? If I don’t run while I can, they’ll either burn me with the old city or the witchfinder will be here, looking for me.” His teeth closed on his lip and his brow furrowed. “I know the townspeople saw where I ran. How could they fail to see? They're stupid and cruel, not blind. If they sent someone after me, even as far as the top of the hill, they’ll know where I am, more or less … there’s only one cottage standing here, and you can see the roof from the old olive grove.”
And they would have sent someone for the soldiers, he knew. Nothing was more certain. The witchfinder only had to find his way to the town in the valley, speak to the drink seller, the physician or the carter, and he could he here --
“He could be here soon,” Faunos said to the empty house.
He stooped to draw the skins and furs up over Galen’s still face. For a moment he wondered if he should bury the old man, but the fires would find him soon enough, and fire was the right way for a man’s flesh and bones to return to the earth. By midnight, all of Zeheft would be an ocean of flame -- Galen would burn on the last funeral pyre of the Old Kingdom, and there was, Faunos decided, a great poignancy in this.
Everything he and Galen had owned was packed in the bags stacked in the corner, and it must be pared down to what could be carried by one pair of shoulders. The books, his father’s sword, the purse of silver and gold coins Galen had guarded to jealously; several cloaks and wraps, two pairs of sandals, whetstones, knives, a writing box, a magnifying lens, a handglass, cosmetics, medicinal salves and tinctures.
It was difficult, painful, to set aside things which embodied a lifetime of memories. Faunos knew he was wasting time as he sat with Galen’s belongings in his lap, trying to fathom how to take much more than he should. There was what he needed, and what he wanted, and instinct told him to be ruthless.
Everything he actually needed was set aside, and he placed the remainder of Galen’s things beside the body. He folded the old teacher’s hands on his chest and placed his dirk beneath them. His favorite writing stylus, the fork he liked best, his cup, his plate and kerchiefs -- all these, Faunos tucked into the bedding.
He lifted the sheepskins to look one final time into his guardian’s face, and blinked away painful, useless tears. “I’ll find the water gypsies,” he promised. “You know how they come and go with every tide. I'll be safe. I’ll work passage into the outer islands, and then I’ll get another ship … to the Keltoi shore, I think.
“You taught me enough of the language to get by, there -- and if I keep my mouth shut, I’ll look so much like one of them, no one should notice me. I’ll find a place away from people, and study. The full five years, Galen. My word upon it. It'll be a hermitage for me, no lovers, no idleness, no despair -- I’ll study as if you were there behind me, looking over my shoulder. And on the eve of my coming of age I’ll lift a cup of wine to your memory, and the memory of Zeheft, and get very drunk in your honor.”
The pledge would have made Galen chuckle, and Faunos liked to believe he heard that sound like a whisper in the cottage’s dark corners. He touched Galen’s face in farewell, and in a single moment the memories of his lifetime rolled through him like the tide. Days and hours he had not thought of in years fled before his eyes, sweet and painful at once.
Then the sheepskins settled back into place. He tucked them in, as if he were making the old man comfortable for a long, long sleep, and returned to the bags. By the stars, it was already almost midnight, and part of him had begun to listen for soldiers, scent the air for smoke.
For the moment he heard nothing, but when the moment arrived, it would be too late for flight. He would either watch the pyre blaze up from the gypsy beaches, or he would not be leaving at all.
With a blistering curse that would have made Galen frown in disapproval, he applied himself to the bags.
[page back]
How long he wept, he did not know, but the moon was bright as a carriage lamp over the bay when he returned to reality, and the sky was peacock blue and green, with the brightest stars glittering strongly. Sunset was gone, and the hearth was dark once more.
Galen was cold by now, and Faunos moved like a man five times his years as he stood and fumbled to light a second lamp. He had lost track of the time. The soldiers would be arriving from Vayal soon -- there was no time, no space to grieve properly when the ruins would be a sea of fire. He must get out, and quickly.
He drank a goatskin dry, sat on the doorstep and watched the ocean until his head began to clear. Selene rode higher, her divine light cold and pure on the immense diamond. He held up his wrist and looked through the stone, at the moon. He felt the Power flow through it and pulse inside him -- it was in his head like half-formed dreams, in his belly life half-woken passion that could explode into ravenous lust, if he allowed it.
Entranced by the pure white moonlight as it fell through the crystal into his half-closed eyes, he breathed deeply and slowly, and for once let it grow. He had performed this exercise only twice, and both times under Galen’s supervision. He knew how his body would shiver with the Power, and tonight he did not try so shut it out.
His eyes fell to the ground before his feet, and he smiled faintly as he saw the pebbles there rolling toward him. Several bobbed up into the air, weightless as feathers in the breeze. He held out his hand and they came to him, danced around his fingers as long as he could concentrate on them. He could make them march in file and cavort like revelers performing the quadrille. Pahrys could do this with tiny sparklets of fire, but Galen had always warned Faunos against trying to be clever with live flame. With the focus on his wrist, fire was easy to conjure, difficult to contain and be rid of. Just once, Galen had let him burn his fingers, and learn the hard way to take care.
Tonight, Faunos no longer cared about the risk. As he thought of Pahrys’s laughing eyes, how his older cousin would entertain a crowd that gathered in the marketplace -- gather up the coppers they threw and then vanish into the shadows with a handsome one, or two -- he saw the first fireflies wink into being among the cavorting pebbles.
Heat seared his palm. He guarded himself with a shield of ice that crystallized out of the air at his whim. Now, he only had to concentrate. Stones and flames wove about each other like dancers at the midsummer bonfires, and he swayed with their rhythm, entranced, making them hurl faster, faster --
The screech of a night bird broke his concentration and the stones fell, the fireflies flickered into nothingness, the ice shattered into a thousand minute snowflakes. Faunos brushed them off his palm. With a soft curse he stood, and turned toward the bird.
It was a raven, perching on the eaves above the door, watching him as if it waited for him to make some decision. Thousands of them had come in with the kites, hawks, vultures, to pick over the ruins. He left the Power begin to throb through him again, and held out his left hand toward the bird. His fingers glowed faintly, as if they were gloved in captive moonlight.
Caught in thrall, the raven came to him, perched on his forearm and fluffed its oily feathers as if his touch was its delight. He petted it for some time, and at last released it. A look of astonishment was on its face as it flapped away into the darkness.
“All of this is for nothing, Galen,” he whispered to the night. “Zeheft is only a memory, it can’t return any more than you can. And as for me? If I don’t run while I can, they’ll either burn me with the old city or the witchfinder will be here, looking for me.” His teeth closed on his lip and his brow furrowed. “I know the townspeople saw where I ran. How could they fail to see? They're stupid and cruel, not blind. If they sent someone after me, even as far as the top of the hill, they’ll know where I am, more or less … there’s only one cottage standing here, and you can see the roof from the old olive grove.”
And they would have sent someone for the soldiers, he knew. Nothing was more certain. The witchfinder only had to find his way to the town in the valley, speak to the drink seller, the physician or the carter, and he could he here --
“He could be here soon,” Faunos said to the empty house.
He stooped to draw the skins and furs up over Galen’s still face. For a moment he wondered if he should bury the old man, but the fires would find him soon enough, and fire was the right way for a man’s flesh and bones to return to the earth. By midnight, all of Zeheft would be an ocean of flame -- Galen would burn on the last funeral pyre of the Old Kingdom, and there was, Faunos decided, a great poignancy in this.
Everything he and Galen had owned was packed in the bags stacked in the corner, and it must be pared down to what could be carried by one pair of shoulders. The books, his father’s sword, the purse of silver and gold coins Galen had guarded to jealously; several cloaks and wraps, two pairs of sandals, whetstones, knives, a writing box, a magnifying lens, a handglass, cosmetics, medicinal salves and tinctures.
It was difficult, painful, to set aside things which embodied a lifetime of memories. Faunos knew he was wasting time as he sat with Galen’s belongings in his lap, trying to fathom how to take much more than he should. There was what he needed, and what he wanted, and instinct told him to be ruthless.
Everything he actually needed was set aside, and he placed the remainder of Galen’s things beside the body. He folded the old teacher’s hands on his chest and placed his dirk beneath them. His favorite writing stylus, the fork he liked best, his cup, his plate and kerchiefs -- all these, Faunos tucked into the bedding.
He lifted the sheepskins to look one final time into his guardian’s face, and blinked away painful, useless tears. “I’ll find the water gypsies,” he promised. “You know how they come and go with every tide. I'll be safe. I’ll work passage into the outer islands, and then I’ll get another ship … to the Keltoi shore, I think.
“You taught me enough of the language to get by, there -- and if I keep my mouth shut, I’ll look so much like one of them, no one should notice me. I’ll find a place away from people, and study. The full five years, Galen. My word upon it. It'll be a hermitage for me, no lovers, no idleness, no despair -- I’ll study as if you were there behind me, looking over my shoulder. And on the eve of my coming of age I’ll lift a cup of wine to your memory, and the memory of Zeheft, and get very drunk in your honor.”
The pledge would have made Galen chuckle, and Faunos liked to believe he heard that sound like a whisper in the cottage’s dark corners. He touched Galen’s face in farewell, and in a single moment the memories of his lifetime rolled through him like the tide. Days and hours he had not thought of in years fled before his eyes, sweet and painful at once.
Then the sheepskins settled back into place. He tucked them in, as if he were making the old man comfortable for a long, long sleep, and returned to the bags. By the stars, it was already almost midnight, and part of him had begun to listen for soldiers, scent the air for smoke.
For the moment he heard nothing, but when the moment arrived, it would be too late for flight. He would either watch the pyre blaze up from the gypsy beaches, or he would not be leaving at all.
With a blistering curse that would have made Galen frown in disapproval, he applied himself to the bags.
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Return to Chapter Fifteen...
