Prelude to Silent Skies
That Hallowed Counterpoint
PRELUDE TO SILENT SKIES: THAT HALLOWED COUNTERPOINT
We begin on one of those evenings that arrive after long days of toil. You meet them bone-weary but often satisfied in some way with the day’s events. You are too tired to focus on anything specific, so instead, you just collapse and begin to feel the world around you. You feel the company—the wind, the water, the underbrush, the creatures of the night, the people, the fire. In this depth of company, you also feel separate from each thing—as is proper …
These are the somnolent evenings that continually shape us, month after month, year after year, infinitely reiterating the murmured rumour of our identity: of company and separation; of being at home and in exile.
‘Shhh,’ said the zephyr, tumbling lightly in from the west. It brought a quiet stillness—a strange serenity that created a sharp counterpoint within their frigid, darkling world.
This peculiar tranquillity stretched all around them, filling the air between the small sounds of the woods at night. Water dripping from leaves. A campfire crackling and hissing at the damp darkness. The river lapping at its banks nearby. Soaked leather softly squeaking as members of the company shifted, watching the flames in silence.
As the rain died from a drizzle into nothing, a member of the company leaned back against the tree behind her with a contented sigh. She was perched on its gnarled roots, torn free of the wet earth. The whisper of wind soothed her, even though it was chilling through her sodden clothes.
Her weary companions were also drenched, yet most were glad to be sitting before a warm fire … glad to be alive—against terrible odds.
The boy nearest her did not look as comfortable as the rest, swiping his blood-red fringe out of his eyes and clenching his jaw against the wind as he watched the flames flicker. His hair had grown far beyond his liking, and he was nearly constantly irritated by its intrusion into his vision.
He was crouched on his travel pack, avoiding the sludgy forest floor on which he had placed his poleaxe, its blade wrapped in oiled leather. He sniffed and began to rub his hands together, not drawing his gaze away from the firelight.
On his other side, also hunkered down on a pack, was one of the twins, his arms folded across his chest to keep some of the warmth in. Eyes on the fire, he spoke. ‘Anyone want to hear another story?’
After a moment’s silence, his twin shook her head. ‘I’ll probably fall asleep halfway through,’ she said. Apart from their short blond hair, the two had little in common.
Several of them smiled, agreeing that watching the flames was enough for now.
One of the others, a boy sitting between the twins, his heavy round shield resting against his knee, even nodded his agreement. The few around the fire that noticed this thought it strange, for the boy spoke least and kept a mien more impassive than stone. In all the time they had known him, he had made his opinion clear only once and only to the girl who sat beside him, and this had been to warn her about the danger of the companion sitting across the fire from him.
That boy’s gaze was on the ground instead of the light. He had taken his shirt off—something he did often. He had more reason than usual this time: shedding drenched clothes to allow the fire’s heat directly onto his skin. His skin was black as coal in the night, far darker than the rest of them, who were all of the one pale people: the Taranor.
The companion to his left had also removed his shirt. His name was Boden Tuthervarr. He was seventeen, the oldest of the company, the tallest and the toughest. His long, sun-bleached hair was bound behind his head, and his dark eyes—with their Taranor double irises—were intent on the orange in his hands as he sliced it into segments with his hunting knife.
One of these segments he passed to his shirtless companion, who did not eat it but passed it on to the girl sitting on the roots of the tree beside him. Another segment, the oldest companion passed to his left, to the group’s eighth and final member.
This final member was the shortest and smiled the most. Even now, soaked through and painfully tired in all his muscles, he was grinning as he sank his teeth into the fruit. He was the least fit—and the most attracted to food, strangely enough. The silver and sapphire of a ring on his left hand winked in the firelight, the only mark of his nobility that he wore.
The red-haired boy across the fire, most uncomfortable with silence, stopped rubbing his hands and folded his arms. Glancing to his left, he said, ‘I guess we don’t have much of a chance of tracking them down now.’
His only answer was the water dripping from the trees around them, testimony to the rain that had likely washed away any trace of their quarry.
The girl sitting on the roots of the tree beside him sighed, her smile turning a little sad as she looked from the segment of orange in her hand to the boy who had spoken.
She held it out for him. ‘Have some food, Redock,’ she prompted. ‘It might make you a little happier to be alive—we did almost die only an hour ago.’
Redock grimaced, taking the piece of fruit and shrugging. ‘I suppose being drenched is better than being dead,’ he conceded. ‘I just thought I’d see if anyone had any ideas of what we’ll do tomorrow.’ He trailed off, staring at the tall, tough companion across the fire.
That boy—the tracker named Boden—noticed Redock’s gaze and shrugged uncomfortably. He was still cutting up the orange when he began to speak, his voice little above a murmur, as usual. ‘Our best option would be to head upriver; see if we can find their tracks again there. We could try searching west too. Maybe it didn’t rain as much in that direction.’
His short neighbour nodded, setting his orange peel on the ground near the fire. ‘Or we head to Fort Banam,’ he said, ‘and hope we intercept or overtake them—if they’re headed that way, at least.’
They all knew it was unlikely they’d get lucky with either strategy.
Redock swallowed. ‘Maybe we should go back to the guild,’ he suggested. ‘We’ve got a pretty good excuse for … well, for letting them get away, what with our injuries and all.’ He went silent for a moment, feeling like a coward. The Taranor, like the Janzacs before them, seldom retreated from a fight.
When he spoke again, he was quieter. ‘I … It’s just … I’d rather not linger here. Not with everything that’s been happening … the adlets and the vark … the clouds.’
At the mention of the clouds, they all shivered, their eyes roving, looking anywhere but up. Even with the partial covering of the woods, the web of low, motionless clouds pressed disquiet down on them. Frozen still despite the light wind, the heavy heavens were an omen subtle and potent. Every one of the companions could guess what those stagnant clouds meant. Granted, their suspicions were based on folklore, but none now doubted the primacy of such tales.
Across the fire, the eldest companion nodded slowly twice—canine shapes loping across his mind’s eye. He went still, his knife partway through the fruit in his hand. The sticky citrus dribbling over his fingers grew warm as he wandered into a memory. The liquid turned a deep, scalding red.
And the wind became a whetstone rasping incessantly against a sword already sharp.
(Flames of the Exiled: Silent Skies continues with Chapter One: Candle and Moon.)