A hunched little man crept into the light from the window, heavily supporting himself on the handle of a mop.
“Beasts and devils!” Imraldera exclaimed, nearly dropping her penknife in surprise. “Who are you?”
The wrinkles on that withered face creased into a smile. “I’m sorry. I forgot we’ve not formally met. I’m called the Murderer by most these days, though I rather hope you’ll call me friend.”
1
THE PARASITE DEMANDED THE FIRSTBORN CHILDREN of every household. From the youngest, newly hatched fledgling, to those who flew among the clouds but were not yet counted among the adults of our number. Only these Cren Cru wanted, or so the Twelve said as they marched through the streets of our city, proclaiming their master’s will.
Some who knew the workings of Cren Cru made no attempt to resist. They offered their children swiftly and stood by while those unfortunates were thrown by the Twelve through a strange, small doorway in the side of the Mound, never to be seen again.
I trembled as I stood in Omeztli beside my mother and my brother, Tlanextu. He was older than I, his wings broad and strong, green against the blue of the sky, purple in the light of evening fires. He was very like our father, King Citlalu, in face and bearing. I thought him lordly and strong.
But he was still counted a child. And he was firstborn.
“Will they take you, Tlanextu?” I asked him.
“Never,” said he, and his voice was harder than I had ever before heard it.
I looked up at him, suddenly afraid. “Will you offer yourself ?”
“No!” It was my mother who spoke. Queen Mahuizoa the Glorious, older than the foundations of Etalpalli. She stepped before us, blocking our view of the Mound, and her eyes were filled with her death to come. “Citlalu will not permit this. Nor will I. You will be safe, my son.”
“But what of you, Mother?” Tlanextu asked. “What will become of you and Father if you resist the will of Cren Cru?”
She did not answer. But she knew.
Alistair stood at his bedroom window as evening spread across the sky, sweeping over the fields surrounding Gaheris Castle, the hamlets, the groves. Autumn was breaking up the warmth of summer early this year, drawing heavy rains inland from the ocean. Even now Alistair saw storm clouds gathering, blocking out the red light of the setting sun. He trembled where he stood. He was a brave man, this heir to Gaheris, strong in battle and courageous in the hunt. By the strength of his own arm, he had brought down boar, bear, and wolf.
But Alistair was afraid of the dark.
So he trembled as he watched the thunder-rolled evening sweep over the earldom, plunging the world into the deep shadows of night and nightmares. He had sent all his servants and waiting men from the room an hour before, keeping only a tallow candle and the blaze on his hearth. Their warmth comforted him now. But he knew that sometime in the night the fire would go out and the candle would gutter in a plume of black smoke.
No earl should stand with knees knocking and palms sweating before an unarmed foe. For nighttime was nothing more, Alistair told himself. Nothing but spooks and fancies playing the fool with his mind. Yet his heart turned to water as the last of daylight faded and evening’s grasp tightened on his world.
The wind blew in Alistair’s face, fresh and full of the distant sea, tasting of rain. A gentle caress at first. But then it swooshed into his room, dousing his fire, plucking his candle’s flame, and hurling all into darkness.
He stood, hands at his sides, eyes wide and unseeing as the wind spat rain into his face.
“Light the candle,” he said, and his voice was steady. He knew where it stood on the low table near his bed, the tinderbox beside it. “Light the candle,” he repeated and turned slowly, proving to himself that he was undaunted as he took one step, then another.
The wind stops. As he knew it would.
All sound of the storm, all smell of the sea-blown rain vanishes in sudden heavy darkness. As he knew it would.
Drawing breath is agony, for it is drawing that darkness down into his own body. But Alistair forces himself to breathe and to take another step. He must find his candle. But he no longer feels floor rushes beneath his boots. Instead, his feet step on rough-hewn rock.
“Alistair!”
He turns to the voice that called his name. As he knew it would.
The child’s face, lit by a white light. Pale and frightened, it stares at him with shadow-ringed blue eyes.
“You shouldn’t be here!”
And Alistair’s voice replies, though he did not himself speak: “I came to find you.”
“You fool!” the child says. “Run away!”
“You must be king,” Alistair hears himself say. “You must save Gaheris.”
The child screams, and there are words in the scream. “Watch out! Behind you!”
Alistair whirls around and sees: Red eyes and the flash of blackened teeth in a mouth leaping for his face.
As he knew it would.