*
The fire warmed Seteal’s toes and for that she was grateful. She couldn’t recall the last time her feet had been warm . . . or perhaps she could. She smiled at the memory of her father handing over a hot cup of tea as they sat before the fireplace. Normally the two fought like wild dogs, but that night they’d laughed so hard Seteal had thought her sides would split. The young man her father had invited over earlier that evening had been so nervous he’d spilled his wine, his soup, and even his desert. By the time he left, Seteal couldn’t tell what colour his pants had originally been.
A short, sharp sob escaped her throat. Memories were all she had left. If she was willing, even that young man would turn in disgust at the prospect of having her as a wife.
Far-a-mael didn’t emerge from his tent until the sun sat tiredly on the horizon. Briel waved him over then turned to offer Seteal a piece of horse meat. ‘You don’t actually mean for us to eat this do you?’ Seteal cringed, looking back and forth between the two men. ‘I’d feel guilty with Darra watching.’
‘Eat it or starve,’ Far-a-mael growled, having abandoned any pretence of caring for her. ‘It’s cold, there’s nothing to hunt, and much of our journey is yet to be had.’
‘Horse it is then.’ Seteal sighed miserably. She’d been about to add something sarcastic, but a distressed cry through the dimming light stole her attention.
The demon called out an unfamiliar name and then with a shout snapped the rope that bound its wrists. Briel and Far-a-mael leapt to their feet and hurried toward it. Seteal got up and stumbled back in fear, her eyes locked on the site before her. The silt’s face scrunched up in pain as it beat its wings, rose into the air and rocked the entire wagon. It wailed in frustration and fell back to the earth.
Briel reached the demon first, but it was far too strong and hurtled him back through the air. Far-a-mael threw out his hands, but it was too late. Fes crept out of the darkness wielding a frying pan and with a solid crack to the back of its head the demon crumpled. Briel sat up to stare at his wife in shock. Far-a-mael shared a similar expression. Fes spread her hands innocently.
‘Never be sendin’ a man ta da a woman’s job,’ she chuckled.
‘Don’t ye ever be puttin’ yeself in that kind of danger again, ye hear me?’ Briel limped over to his wife and wrapped her in his arms.
‘Come now, Briel, don’t be makin’ a fuss.’ Fes pushed him away.
‘All of this excitement isn’t good for my heart.’ Far-a-mael bent over, resting his hands on his knees. ‘This ought to make him behave.’ The Gil’rei pulled out a knife and wedged it into the silt’s infected wound, splitting it open afresh. Dark blue blood and puss trickled down the creature’s wing.
Whether it was repulsion or hunger that drove them, everyone headed back to the fire. Briel fancied himself as something of a chef and volunteered to cook some more meat. It smelled odd, but not undesirable. Seteal opened her mouth and took a small bite. It wasn’t terribly chewy. She could almost pretend it was an ordinary steak. Almost.
‘Seteal.’ Fes sat heavily, a large chunk of meat clutched between her fingers. ‘We’ve nah had much of a chance ta get ta know ye?’
‘I suppose not.’ Seteal looked at her feet. She’d have preferred not to engage in conversation.
‘I can’t help but be wonderin’ what a young Gor be doin’ travelin’ with Elglair.’ Fes frowned.
‘It be none of our business,’ Briel reprimanded his wife.
‘She’s a half-caste,’ Far-a-mael stated.
‘I mean nah disrespect.’ Fes raised her eyebrows. ‘But I always thought ye people did nah much care for the half-bloods.’
‘Seteal is of special interest,’ Far-a-mael grumbled. ‘Now, I’ve had enough of this discussion.’
‘You didn’t really think they’d just leave me to die, did you?’ Seteal frowned.
‘Who said anythin’ about dyin’?’ Fes laughed.
‘I don’t understand,’ Seteal said slowly, but her confusion was left unanswered, as it was in that moment that the silt awoke.
‘Bastards,’ the demon moaned, its hideous purple eyes locked on the meat in Seteal’s hands. The creature bent over gagging and carrying on. ‘You’re all going to burn in torrid. You know that? You’ll burn.’
‘Shut up, demon!’ Far-a-mael snarled, before tossing a chunk of gristle at the creature. The silt leapt aside in disgust, his eyes filled with tears. Seteal gaped. Surely it couldn’t be crying. Silts didn’t cry. They were evil. The silt dug a hole in the earth, nudged in the piece of gristle with a stick and covered it over.
‘What ye be up to?’ Briel asked suspiciously.
‘In your memory, Emquin,’ the silt said softly. ‘May you find the peace you sought,’ he murmured, placing two fingers to his forehead and then heart.
Far-a-mael rolled his eyes, but otherwise ignored the silt. ‘El-i-miir, pass me some more of the blackened parts. I’m so hungry I could, well . . . I could eat a horse.’ He laughed and slapped his knee.
‘I hope ye be right about this silt,’ Fes spoke up. ‘He be wearin’ Abnatian clothin’, has an Abnatian accent, and just now performed an Abnatian funeral tradition.’
Far-a-mael shook his head vigorously. ‘Our boy here simply knows what he’s doing.’ He strode over to the silt. ‘Don’t you? You’ve trained hard, haven’t you?’ The silt glared at Far-a-mael but said nothing. ‘You’re pathetic,’ Far-a-mael muttered, turning back to the fire.
For some mysterious reason, El-i-miir filled a bucket with water and carried it over to the silt. The creature took the bucket and drank greedily.
‘What’d you do that for?’ Far-a-mael asked.
‘There’s not much point in bringing him home if he’s dead when we get there.’ El-i-miir shrugged.
‘Thanks. Here’s your bucket,’ the silt called as he tossed it into the fire and succeeded in putting it out.
‘You see what they do?’ Far-a-mael asked El-i-miir. ‘You show them the slightest bit of mercy and they repay you with wickedness.’ He wandered over and stared at the silt with penetrating eyes. At first it tried to resist, but it didn’t take long before it collapsed, writhing and howling in misery.
Seteal watched as Far-a-mael’s attack stretched on. It didn’t bother her. No matter how much she saw the silt suffer, she couldn’t have cared less. And that was unusual. She’d always been compassionate toward others and couldn’t stand to see the sufferance of anyone. She watched as the silt clasped its head and gritted its teeth, but found she was only able to enjoy what she saw. Repulsed by her lack of repulsion, Seteal abandoned the scene and headed down the road. When she returned everyone had gone to bed.
She headed for the tent, only to pause at the entrance to the sound of sobbing coming from within. Seteal found the sound strangely irritating. What did that pathetic little sap have to cry about now? How had her pretty little life mistreated her this time? Choosing to ignore the woman, Seteal felt about for her night dress, got changed and slid beneath the covers. Sleep wouldn’t come easily--it seldom did--but she closed her eyes and hoped for the best.
‘But you’ve been a naughty girl,’ Master Fasil taunted her, coiling his claws around Seteal’s leg. Her eyes shot open and she placed a hand protectively between her thighs.
‘He is from Sitnic, you know.’ El-i-miir’s voice shuddered with emotion.
‘What?’
‘The silt. He told us the truth.’
‘I don’t understand.’ Seteal frowned. ‘Far-a-mael is a gil, and he doesn’t believe it’s from Sitnic.’
‘Far-a-mael cannot sense lies the way I do,’ El-i-miir said.
‘I still don’t understand.’ Seteal shook her head. ‘Even if you’re right, who cares? It’s a filthy, no-good demon.’
‘How can you say that?’ El-i-miir’s voice gave away unwarranted emotion. ‘What if he was raised like you and me or anyone else. How can we judge him for something that’s not his fault?’
; ‘That’s a bit rich coming from the woman who accused my parents of having an illegitimate marriage,’ Seteal scoffed. ‘You live your life believing half-castes like me are unworthy of Elglair attention. Torrid, your people scarcely even leave the Frozen Lands because of your conviction to being so much better than everyone else.’
‘Maybe I’ve changed,’ El-i-miir replied weakly. ‘I care about you now. I understand that you can’t just judge people on where they’re from or what they look like. I mean, even if every other silt is born of purest evil . . . what if this one is not? Wouldn’t that make it wrong to treat him so cruelly?’
‘I would hold my tongue if I were you,’ Seteal said softly after a long silence. ‘You shouldn’t be speaking like that. If Far-a-mael heard about it . . .’ She let the threat hang in the air.
‘Fine,’ El-i-miir said stuffily, ‘but you know what, Seteal, at least I’ve come to be more open-minded. You, on the other hand, have become less. You’re starting to sound like Far-a-mael.’
‘It would be an honour to be like Far-a-mael,’ Seteal snarled. ‘At least he has conviction.’
‘All right, Seteal,’ El-i-miir muttered weakly. ‘I guess we’ve got nothing further to say.’
‘You know a whisp killed my mother, don’t you?’
‘I didn’t know that.’ El-i-miir’s tone filled with understanding. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s fine.’ Seteal laid back aggressively.
‘This isn’t really about the silt though, is it?’ El-i-miir said after a moment’s hesitation. ‘All of your aggression.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Seteal moaned in frustration, wishing that the woman would just leave her alone.
‘It’s okay.’ El-i-miir reached out for Seteal’s hand, but she snatched it away. ‘It’s natural to feel this way. It means you’re dealing with what happened. First you were shocked, depression followed closely, and now you’re angry. This behaviour is all about Master Fasil.’
‘Don’t say that name!’ Seteal said, sitting up and looming threateningly not a handswidth from El-i-miir’s face. ‘Don’t you dare try to analyse me! You don’t know what I’ve been through. You haven’t felt what I have. Until a man has reached inside you and stolen what was taken from me, don’t presume to understand what it’s like. I was raped, El-i-miir. There’s nothing “natural” about it, and I will never be able to “deal” with it. So stop trying to fix me, stop trying to help me, and most importantly stop trying to be my friend.’
El-i-miir said nothing further, perhaps having finally realised that opening her mouth only ever made things worse. Seteal closed her eyes, but knew she’d have no hope in falling asleep. She decided to practice some of Far-a-mael’s techniques. She’d discovered in her lessons that when she was frustrated or angry she tended to be better able to open up to the Ways.
Something had happened to Seteal, both in Narvon Wood and in Sitnic when Seeol had been on his murderous rampage. The world around her had distorted somehow and she couldn’t help but wonder what might happen if she encouraged the sensation rather than hiding from it.
Seteal cleared her mind of disruptive thoughts. She focused on mundane realities, reached out, and sensed the Ways as they coiled throughout existence, weaving and guiding the paths of all things. Seteal’s mind drained into a void of joy and joylessness. The Ways stretched out like a spider’s web. It reached her soul, picked her up, and pulled her away. Seteal gasped, but her body remained motionless. Screaming filled her mind as all control was lost. Where before it’d required so much effort to reach out, now the Ways took over, drawing her away.
And it was over. She was safe. Her eyes were open and above her the walls of the tent stretched away into the darkness. But it wasn’t dark, though it should’ve been. It couldn’t possibly be morning and yet Seteal was able to see as clearly as day. But was it truly sight? She searched about for the light source, but there was none. And then she discovered the truth. Seteal wasn’t seeing, she was knowing. A young woman rested on her pillow with brown hair and a bruised face. The woman appeared to be sleeping, but Seteal knew that wasn’t the case, because the woman was her.
Panic flooded her being and Seteal fled. She didn’t understand the mechanism of her motion, as she lacked legs, a body, or any physical form whatsoever. She was nothingness. She both existed and didn’t. She was a part of the Ways and separate from them.
The campsite spilled away into the distant night as Seteal was drawn to another part of the Ways. The road that’d once seemed so very long disappeared as she churned through existence, through forests, mountain ranges and unknown places. Time had ceased to flow. Birds remained frozen in the sky, their wings outstretched, their hearts no longer beating.
A small town became Seteal’s reality and she realised that she’d been reaching for it all along. She’d been calling for someone. Father.
Seteal formed the memory as she plunged into the heart of Elmsville. And everything stopped.
Seteal existed in the town centre. She could see the roof of her house over the top of the one facing the square. She moved through the dark streets, silent and detached. The building loomed up before her. It was a daunting, foreboding place, no longer the warm and hospitable home it’d once been. Seteal fell through the closed door.
‘Bring her back to me,’ a voice whispered sorrowfully. The house was dark. Seteal was aware of the fact, despite its not being an impediment to her. Gifn Eltari was on his knees before the fireplace, his copy of the Holy Tome clenched in both hands. ‘I’ve pleaded with you, Maker, but still you do not bring her home. Have I not been your loyal servant?’
Silence prevailed and yet somehow, somewhere, Seteal felt tears on her cheeks.
Father, Seteal tried to speak, but without a mouth she could not make a sound. She reached out to him but only succeeded in drifting through his body and coming out the other side.
‘Forgive my blasphemous mouth, but, Lord, I can wait on you no longer,’ Gifn sobbed. ‘I’ve trusted in you, but found no peace.’
Gifn faded from existence along with the fire he’d knelt before. The room was silent, but for his whispered voice as it vanished into the past. The home became darker than before. Seteal moved toward her father’s chair, where layers of dust gathered at an incredible pace. A spider built an entire web in what felt like seconds. She had witnessed the past and was now sliding back toward the present. No one lived there anymore. Gifn was gone. With all her might, Seteal tried to rekindle the image of her father, but he was gone and she couldn’t bring him back.
Her spirit was slapped sideways. The world spiralled and Seteal felt a familiar sensation--a bodily sensation. Someone was shaking her. She was torn through the world, severed from the Ways, and her eyes burst open to discover the tent’s gloomy interior.
‘Wake up,’ El-i-miir whispered urgently. ‘Seeol’s in a tree outside. I think he’s back to following us.’
‘Of course he is.’ Seteal rolled over, putting her back to the woman. ‘I told him to.’
‘You did what?’ El-i-miir said with a stunned tone. ‘So you accuse me of pitying the silt and yet you’ve actively encouraged the companionship of a creature we’ve seen murder in cold blood. What the torrid is wrong with you?’
‘I’m hardly encouraging his companionship, I just happen to think the Elglair might be able to do something to help him,’ Seteal said thoughtfully. ‘Surely not all of your people are as useless as you and Far-a-mael.’
‘Excuse me?’ El-i-miir said defensively. ‘I’ll have you know that we’re two of the most powerful Elglair in the last four hundred years.’
‘In some ways, yes,’ Seteal said as she rolled back over, ‘but Far-a-mael made it clear to me that different gils are good at different things. What makes you so sure Seeol can’t be helped?’
‘Because it’s impossible,’ El-i-miir fumed. ‘Seeol is seeol! There’s a meaning behind his name, you know. You speak with such confidence on matters of which you are ignor
ant.’
‘You know what? This is just so typical of you, El-i-miir.’ Seteal glared at the woman. ‘As long as Seeol isn’t bothering you, he’s not your problem right? But he is a problem. If he’s not following us, he’ll follow someone less equipped to deal with him. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want those lives on my conscience. Then again, I suppose that’s not a problem for you, considering that whisp you created.’
‘What is wrong with you?’ El-i-miir burst out, her voice flooding with emotion. ‘You’re so cruel! I don’t even know why I try anymore.’
‘I’m cruel?’ Seteal said defensively. ‘You’ve probably killed someone. You’re no different to the silt that killed my mother. What the torrid do you expect from me?’
‘I thought it was the right thing to do,’ El-i-miir sobbed.
‘Well, it wasn’t,’ Seteal said as she rolled back to face the wall yet again. Silence prevailed thereafter. Neither woman spoke and for many hours neither woman slept.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE RIVERBOAT