He walks on.
And back again. The Dragonbane mid-stride, brow furrowed in the struggle to recall.
So what was I saying?
Shaking sticks. Look, I ve seen in Ishlin-ichan that time I saw a shaman shaking a stick over a sick child. About yea long, with bone rattles at the end.
Yeah, that s fucking Ishlin-ichan. They do it for effect there, for coins from imperial tourists they think it ll impress. It s no different than Strov market in Trelayne. You can t take that shit seriously. Voice growing suddenly faint, as if a door somewhere has closed between them. Take it from me, no self-respecting Skaranak shaman worth a
And gone again.
Until finally the gaps between, grown increasingly long and lonely, become an unbroken absence and Ringil stops on the path, as if to acknowledge the Dragonbane s passing. He squats again, sighs, and stares at the dirt- ingrained stones underfoot.
It s a while before he feels like going on.
But as he straightens up, his gaze catches on something. He narrows his eyes and sees, not too distant, a canted set of angles silhouetted black against the sky. The last remaining corner frame of some wooden dwelling, perhaps, long ago eaten down by fire, gnawed and blackened bones now standing forlorn on the marsh.
He shrugs. It s a target like any other. Something to walk toward.
It s not more than a few hundred paces. But as he draws closer, he sees his error. It s not a dwelling, destroyed or otherwise.
It s a signpost.
A signpost made from some hammered dark alloy he doesn t recognize, four fingers forked away from one another at right angles. The whole assembly is canted slightly downward out of true and stands behind a small mound in the tufted marsh grass terrain. The inscription on the pointers is illegible, scoured down by salt-sea winds and time, but he thinks the lettering looks like old Myrlic.
There s a gauzy wrap of cobwebs spun down from the top and outward like some diaphanous triangle of sail run up the signpost s mast. Marsh spiders hang in the gray midst of it, fist-sized and smaller, motionless, tending the strands with long poised forelegs. Ringil feels a sympathetic stab in his belly where the wound is
It won t kill you, hero.
Clicking, crow-rasp, indrawn breath of a voice.
Another stab in the belly as he realizes that what he s taken for a mound is in fact something sat at the base of the signpost, something cowled and swathed in dark rags and so hunched and bent over that he can t believe it just spoke.
Then it lifts its head and looks at him.
Later, he will be unable to remember exactly what it looked like under the cowl. He ll recall only the way he steels up and looks back into the what color were they? what shape? how many of them? unblinking eyes.
Who told you I m a hero?
The thing in the rags grunts. Nothing but heroes in this dump. The whole place stinks of them. Like fish heads on a midden heap.
That doesn t make me one of them.
Does it not? Some rattling sound that might be a chuckle, might equally be a sigh. The rags move, as if at the rearranging of lengthy, arthritic limbs beneath. Let s see, shall we. Face scarred in betrayal, broadsword gifted by a race now gone from the world, a trail of corpses and dark eddies behind you like bread crumbs off a baker s wagon. Who do you think you re kidding, sunshine?
Very good. Aristo disdain cloaking his unease at the sensation that there are far more than two arms working beneath the restless shift of those rags. Am I supposed to be impressed? I ve seen better readings than that from the crones at Strov market. Will you scry a hero s future for me now as well?
As you wish.
And out of the rags, suddenly, there s a big leather-bound tome cracked open, and clawed, bony fingers or maybe just claws? turning the vellum sheets within. The cowl dips, the gaze pores over pages, the taloned fingers leaf.
Here you are. The voice grows mockingly sonorous. Ringil of the cursed blade Ravensfriend, exiled and troubled scion of the northern house Eskiath, reached out and made the clasp with the Rightful Emperor of All Lands. There was blood on the exile s face and in his hair, the marks of battle all over his body, but his grip was still strong and the Emperor grinned to feel that strength. My royal brother, he laughed. Well met. Well
Ringil must have snorted. The beady gaze flickers up at him. No?
Doesn t sound very likely.
Very well. The parched scratch of a page turning. Try this, then. Ringil Angel Eyes rode in sunlit triumph under the high arch of the eastern gate, where he had caused the punishment cages to be cast down and broken apart. At his back marched a double file of the Vanishing Folk, wondrous to behold, and the people of Trelayne fell to their knees in
The Vanishing Folk? In sunlight?
The cowled head cocked. You re right. That s a transcription error. Ringil Angel Eyes rode in band lit triumph under
That s enough. Voice harsh now, because a sudden unlooked-for ache has crept up into his throat.
It is a happy ending.
I don t fucking care. The Vanishing Folk wouldn t follow me anywhere except to slit my throat. I betrayed them, I betrayed
He shuts his mouth with a snap.
Silence.
The cold sift of the wind, stirring his hair. He finds, abruptly, that it hurts him to swallow. The creature at the base of the signpost makes a throat-clearing sound. Turns the page.
All right. Ringil Angel Eyes, the farmboy who had now risen to become both master mage and king
Farmboy? Fucking farmboy?
Ringil finds his anger and the hilt of the dragon-tooth dagger simultaneously. Or maybe it s not rage, maybe it s just a vast impatience, finally, with this place and all it implies. He drops into a crouch before the ragged figure, jabs the yellowed blade in under what might or might not be a chin.
Suppose you turn the page and just tell me the fastest way I can get out of here.
The mound of rags shifts, writhes, and here come the arms, oh yes, another six of them besides the two that hold the book, taloned at the ends, flexing up and out like some obscene unfolding puppetry, he feels two of them settle on his back just below the shoulder blades, pressing in and up like hooks. Another two, tickling in under the ribs at the meat of his waist. One of the remaining spares pats him companionably on the shoulder. The other creeps around under his chin and lifts it slightly on one cold, hooked talon.
I should hate to tear you asunder, the voice says sibilantly. You show a lot of promise.
The stone circle flickers into existence, but it will not serve the creature he s crouched eye-to-eye with is already well inside that space. Ringil can smell it now, a mingling of odors like damp stone and parchment and thick, fresh ink. An odor that might belong to the book as much as the taloned thing that holds it.
Ringil purses his lips, mouth dry. He considers the dragon-tooth blade for a moment.
Lowers it.
The hooks at his shoulder blades ease their touch; the ticklish pressure at his waist withdraws. Limbs folding down, and away. But the talon at his chin remains.
Ringil Eskiath, the voice resumes. Came down the gangplank of the Famous Victory None Foresaw and joined the bright, brawling chaos on the wharf. Sunlight shattered across the water, slammed glints into his narrowed eyes. The Black Folk Span held the sky to the south like a massive slice of shadow dropped across the estuary. It was better than a mile upriver from where he d disembarked, but you could sense the cool of its shade from here, beckoning you on.
Does that suffice?
Ringil nods gingerly. His voice comes hoarse and dry. Sounds good, yeah.
The talon comes out from under his jaw, trails lightly up his cheek, and then lifts away. Ringil tries to rise
