Kellanved's Reach

Heboric nodded again, pleased that the priesthood was now finally asking questions. ‘Have you not noted the disturbances among the Warrens and the gods? The strange manifestations? Ripples of power from no accountable source? A peculiar restiveness among the pantheon?’

The priestess shook her head, disappointed. ‘Heboric – none know of what you speak. Come back to the temple. A great honour could be yours among the family. Please.’

He gestured to his body. ‘I carry Fener with me no matter where I go. He may withdraw his presence whenever he wishes.’

The priestess appeared pained. ‘Do not tempt the Boar, Heboric. Withdrawal would kill you.’

‘I tempt nothing. Fener is with me. He guides my path – of this I am certain. And so the priesthood should not interfere.’

The young Napan priestess now shook her head in sadness. ‘You are determined to pursue this path …’

‘I am.’

She let out a long hard breath. ‘Very well. Who are we to intercede? May the Great Boar watch over you.’

Brother Eliac pointed down the strand. ‘This path leads only to death, fool. None return from the Isle of the Cursed.’

Heboric offered up a sideways mocking smile. ‘Know you not, brother, that those living there have another name for their home? They name it Poliel’s Isle of the Blessed.’

Eliac shuddered within his robes. ‘They are exiled. They bear the taint of the rotting flesh. Travel there and you too shall be exiled – for life.’

Heboric gave a wink. ‘I, brother Eliac, trust in Fener.’ And, bowing, he carried on his way. None shouted after him, and none pursued. Nor would they again, he knew. For though a place high within the priesthood of the Boar might have been his, it was this mission that possessed him. Let the others climb the dreary career rungs of the priestly hierarchy – he had been called. He felt it. And he would pursue it no matter what fate may await.

Chapter 5

In early winter word came to Silk requesting his least favourite duty. The bureaucrats who actually ran the day to day activities of the city, the record-keepers who granted deeds, oversaw the maintenance of roads, sewage tunnels and gutters – all the mundane administrative requirements that any large population requires – had forwarded to him a request to look into disturbances in the western caravanserai district.

Disturbances and complaints that involved an alleged local talent.

It happened once or twice a year. Either a new local talent had emerged, or someone new had come to the city who didn’t know, or was defying, the rules the Protectress had set forth. In either case, one of the five city mages had to look into it and it was his turn.

And so one chilly morning he wrapped a thick cloak about himself and set forth. Of course he was also armed, as occasionally – despite his best efforts to keep things civil – these confrontations turned violent.

Those city bureaucrats had obviously dithered over this problem until the complaints became overwhelming, because no sooner had Silk entered the district than local shopkeepers and residents came clamouring. They pointed out the business – one of the many stablers serving the caravans – and recounted stories of lost sheep and goats, missing dogs, even, some whispered, missing children, all taken by this shapeshifting winged demon child who resided, apparently, above the stables.

Silk raised his hands to quell everyone, and nodded his tired assurances. He regarded the closed and shuttered building. A shapeshifter? Hardly. No soletaken was likely to come to Heng given its ages-long feud with the man-beast Ryllandaras.

He banged on the closed front double doors, now probably barred against the angry neighbours.

‘Go away, damn you,’ a gruff voice answered.

‘It is Silk, city mage. Here on order of the Protectress. You cannot keep me out.’

Silence, then a clatter as a smaller entrance in the broad doors was unbarred. It opened and Silk stepped in. The first thing he noticed in the slanting light cutting in through gaps in the clapboard siding was that every stall was empty. Next he took in the fellow facing him: old and beaten down in a stained leather apron. Silk merely cocked a questioning eye. The man raised his chin to the stairs. ‘The loft,’ he ground out, hands clenched at his apron.

Silk nodded at this, then climbed. A trapdoor led to the upper loft and here he found dusty old crates and bundles of tattered horse-blankets, old cracked leather tack and other equipment hanging from rafters, and amid this jumble, hunched on a box and wrapped in one of the dirty old horse-blankets, a young girl. A tiny yellow songbird fluttered about one of her hands, alighting from one finger to the next. When he drew near, the bird shot off through an open window.

He sat next to her and sighed loudly. ‘You know who I am?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered, her voice hoarse – probably from crying.

‘You know why I am here?’

‘Yes.’