Athairdrost had been walking in the Gardens of Night and Fireglow. All around him the luminescence of drifting firefly lights, and the soft glow of ancient twisted fungi lit up the gloom-dark woods. The trees here had vast, thick, reddish leaves to catch the bare few rays of light that reached them.
Farther north there were no trees–or rumour had it–eventually a person would chance into forests of trees that fed on darkness instead of light. The Princeling did not know if this was true. He had never gone farther north than Carthallagh. The machinations, plots and shifting alliances of the four Sorcerer-Princes of Sorthe did not allow any of them to take their attention away from their lands. To be inattentive, was to invite assassination and usurping.
And now he had to deal with some old mad creature of the north pushing for war. Armies were flooding south, gathering and camping. His own armies had to be mustered. This had all been been requested, politely, by a messenger in grey and white livery. And yet, all the same, none of the princes of Sorthe could decline this politely worded request. They did not have that power, or that right. Not when instruction came from the very seat of darkness, far in the north. But they could prevaricate, disassemble and manoeuvre.
None of them wanted to be the first to assemble and army and move south. It would leave the other three too much free rein at home.
A disturbance stirred the air above him, and a change in light seemed to pass over the clouds. An unpleasant coldness, followed by a flicker of equally unpleasant warmth spread up and down his skin. Without knowing he was doing it, he scratched at one of the blemishes on his face. He squinted. Frowned.
Looking up, he paused, confused, then took a step back and reached for the long thin sword he carried at his side. The finger-thin blade shone with a dead green-grey in the light when it was drawn. It was made of a metal that left poisoned wounds that would not heal, and eventually, invariably, killed.
He watched, mouth slightly agape, as a feathered moonglow-thing circled and landed in front of him. For a moment he thought it was an heron of tremendous size, then it stood upright and he realised that it was more like something half-way between heron and woman. No, he was mistaken. It was a naked woman with fine, angular features and the feathers like those of an egret running down her head instead of hair, and along on her arms, spreading like a cloak behind her. She did not quite touch the ground, but hovered a few inches from it. Light spilled and diffused from her, so that the moon’s own glow seemed to spread upon the ground, like a splash of playful water.
“What are you? he said. “A spy? Assassin?” It was clearly some creature of magic. And from the feel of it, and the light that shone from it, he was certain it was not of night-ilk, or winter-kin, nor born of twilight land.
It considered him for a long time before it spoke. When it did, it said, “Those which you bind are sorrowful. I can hear their cries and whispers all about you. I feel their painfulness. Let them go.”
“My subjects?” he said, confused.
“No. The ghosts. The slave-ghosts you have bound. Or–no–them which have been bound on your behalf? I do not think you’ve the power alone.” Her eyes narrowed. “What bargains have you made, I wonder? With whom?”
He spat a word of power at the creature, sending a great withering across the gap in the air between them. The grass at her feet browned, twisted and died. Smoke rose from it. The nearby trees contorted. Fireflies dropped dead to the earth.
But she was unaffected.
“I see,” she whispered. “This is your choice. Therefore, I must consult and speak with another. I will ask her thoughts.”
In that moment he put his mind against hers. He reached and grabbed at her thoughts with his will. She immediately used her own force of will to throw up mental walls of light and glowing stone, carved into filigree patterns. He was easily repelled, but not before he had managed to steal a single thought. Seemingly, she did not realise what he had been able to take from her. An echo of a name.
She spread her arms with the feathers, and they grew until they were vast wings. Rising in the air again, on ponderous wingbeats, she looked like a spirit ascending to a place of gods and goddesses in the sky. The glow about her diminished, but did not completely fade.
He watched her as she flew south, gliding over the slave-farms and the estates of his noblemen and servant-lords, vanishing as a small speck of light against the blackness of southern mountains.
Anger rose. It was like a white hot ball of lead in his stomach. It bloomed and expanded.
How dare that thing threaten him?
How dare it?
Here, in his own royal gardens. Here, in his home.
It was true then, what the oracle had told him.
The south was sending spies and assassins. None of the lords and ladies of night were safe. With his free hand–trembling–he sought in the satchel at his belt, undoing the clasps and running his fingers over the reassuring grooves and polished surfaces of the object there.
If only it wasn’t broken.
If only it wasn’t just half-a-thing.
He smiled.
Broken. Half-a-thing.
If only.
He reminded himself: broken things can be mended.
He would call his white ghaists to him once again. He would call them, and he would set them again upon a hunt. But now it would be no cursory harrying of strangers in the wilds. It would be a relentless hunt. For now, he had a name. Caewen.