Black Halo

prisoner because you failed to live up to your end of our prior bargain.’

‘Lamentable,’ the voices said. ‘But your presence here serves our purpose further. You shall be free.’

‘The door is scarcely more than sticks bound with twine,’ Rashodd replied. ‘I can be free as soon as I wish to strangle the boy outside. I remain only on your promises.’ His voice became a throaty snarl. ‘In days of darkness, though, I must confess I find them less than illuminating.’

‘And yet, your faith compels you to stay.’

‘For a time longer.’

‘We find our own faith in the Mouth falters. The praises we heap upon him are no longer enough to compel his service. He wavers. He wanes.’

‘And you wish my service,’ Rashodd whispered. ‘You wish me to free this … Daga-Mer.’

‘For Mother Deep to find her way, the Father must also find his.’

‘And if I do …’

‘We grant you what you wish.’

Rashodd’s thick fingers, what remained of them, ran across his face. No matter how many times he did it, no matter how many times he knew they wouldn’t be there, he continued to anticipate pieces of himself still in their proper place: a nose, an eye, part of his lip. And no matter how many times his fingers caressed jagged rents where those parts were missing, his rage continued to grow.

‘My face …’ he whispered.

‘We can return it.’

‘My fingers …’

‘We can bring them back.’

He stared down at his hand. He could still feel the kiss of steel, the dagger’s tongue that had taken his digits. He could still see the hand that had held it. He could hear the voice that had told him not to scream. He could remember the tall man, the felon clad in black with the tears in his eyes.

‘My revenge …’ he whispered hoarsely.

With a melodic laughter, the Deepshriek replied.

‘It will be yours.’

Twenty-Four

NAMING THE SIN

The water is cold today.

Lenk let that thought linger as he let his hand linger in the rush of the stream. Between the clear surface and the bed of yellow pebbles below, he could see the legged eels, their vast and vacant eyes staring out from either side of their gaping mouths as stubby, pinlike legs clung to rocks and streamweeds to resist the current.

He mimicked their expression, staring blankly into the water as he waited for a reply to bubble up inside his mind. He did not wait long.

‘Mm.’

The Steadbrook was never this cold.

‘You remember that?’

It was what the village was named for. It powered the mill that ground the grain. It was the heart of the village. My grandfather told me.

‘Memories are returning. This is good.’

Is it?

‘Should it not be?’

You never seemed concerned with that before.

‘You never spoke back before.’

Do you suppose there’ll be more?

‘More what?’

Memories.

He waited, listening patiently for an answer. All that responded was the stream, burbling aimlessly over the rocks. He furrowed his brow and frowned.

Are you still there?

The sun felt warm on his brow, uncomfortably so. Someone, somewhere else, muttered something.

‘Memories,’ it replied with a sudden chill, ‘are a reminder of what was never meant to be.’

He blinked. Behind his eyes, shadows danced amidst flames in a wild, gyrating torture of consumption. Against a pale and pitiless moon, a mill’s many limbs turned slowly, raising a burning appendage pleadingly to the sky before lowering it, ignored and dejected. And at its wooden, smouldering base, bodies lay facedown, hands reaching out toward a warm brook.

‘Remember,’ the voice said with such severity to make Lenk wince, ‘why we do not need them.’

‘No,’ he whimpered.

‘Well, fine,’ someone said beside him. ‘Refuse if you want, but you don’t have to look so agonised at the suggestion.’

He opened his eyes, glowered at the stream and the quivering reflection of a stubble-caked face staring down at him.

‘If I’m looking pained,’ he said harshly, ‘it’s because you’re talking.’

‘Feel free to leave. I don’t recall inviting you here, anyway.’

Denaos was no longer one singular voice, not so easy to ignore as he had once been. Rather, every noise that emanated from him was now a chorus: complaint followed by a loud slurping sound, an uncouth belch as punctuation and the sound of half a hollowed-out gourd landing in a growing pile of hollowed-out gourd halves to serve as pause between complaints.

He looked down at the young man and grinned, licking up the droplets soaked in his stubbled lip.

‘They can’t figure out the concept of clothing that keeps one’s stones from swaying in the breeze, but they can make some fine liquor.’ He held out the fruit-made-cup to Lenk. ‘You’re sure you don’t want any?’

‘I’m sure I don’t know what it is,’ Lenk replied, rising up.

‘Drinking irresponsibly is a time-honoured tradition amongst my people.’

‘Humans?’

‘Drunks.’

‘Uh-huh. What’s it called?’

Denaos glanced to his left and cleared his throat. Squatting on stubby legs beside the stream, fishing pole in hand, the Owauku took one eye off of the lure bobbing in the water and rotated it slowly to regard the rogue with as much narrowed ire as one could manage with eyes the size of melons.

‘Mangwo,’ he grunted, slowly sliding his eye back to the bobber.

‘And … what’s it made of?’ Lenk asked.

‘Well, now …’ Denaos took a swig, swished it about thoughtfully in his mouth. ‘I’d say it’s fermented something, blended with the finest I-don’t-want-to-know and aged for exactly who-gives-a-damn-you-stupid-tit.’ He smacked his lips. ‘Delicious.’

‘I suppose I should be pleased you’re making such good friends with the reptiles,’ Lenk said, raising an eyebrow. ‘Or do they just find your sliminess blends well with their own?’

‘Jhombi and I are getting on quite well, yes,’ the rogue replied as he plucked his own rod and line from the ground and cast it into the stream. ‘Probably because he barely understands a word of the human tongue and thusly isn’t as prone to be a whining silver-haired hamster.’ He grinned to the Owauku. ‘Am I not right, Jhombi?’