With a faint, sardonic chuckle, Rhan sat up, creaking his heavy, pale shoulders to ease the knots in his back. His neck cracked. Immortality, for the Gods’ sakes – frankly, it was overrated.
He reached for the nearest goblet, took a swig of the remaining wine and, still creaking, unfolded to his feet.
Protector of the World, indeed.
He took another swig of lukewarm red.
There were times down through the returns when Rhan had wondered if he shouldn’t’ve been the inevitably ageing greybeard after all: the twinkly-eyed, wise-and-hale old man with the sinister presence and power to spare and the origin lost in mystery. He’d had the choice – he could’ve been anything.
But he’d figured that immortality was at least supposed to be fun.
Rhan had forgone storyteller-vagabond, chosen instead a form of height and breadth and strength. He was a carven statue, pale skinned and powerful, classic in feature and form. As carefully crafted as the very city herself, he was a warrior, Fhaveon’s guardian and defender.
Hero. Or something like that.
Yet, down through the city’s long returns, his titles had become hollow, jests bereft of anything but taunt – his dark foe had never come back. Instead of righteous fighter, Rhan had been a petty politician for four hundred returns – and
Who said the Gods didn’t have sense of humour?
The brief, acid chuckle came again. However he may physically appear, his immortality was its own blight – even the parties had palled in the end. There were many times he’d wondered if his damned brother had not been the lucky one. He, at least, must still have his passion.
But the father of the Gods, as ever, wasn’t listening.
Rhan had another slug of wine and rubbed the drowsiness out of his eyes.
Around him, his scattering of companions remained motionless. They were a ramshackle assortment, with one thing in common – they were his friends, and he cared little for age or status. He’d watched some of them grow from youngsters, known their parents and their families for generations gone. They were mortal, bright, fragile, and their time was so short – yet they gave him hope. While their lives and vibrancy could still touch him, he could still find the light in his heart.
Though there were times when he had to employ some interesting methods to remember where he’d left it.
Carefully, Rhan picked his way across the room, retrieving goblets and platters. He leaned down to pick up a pipe, tapped the ash into a bowl. By the Gods, if any of Mostak’s overzealous grunts were to aim a heavy boot at his front door, he’d have a whole lot of explaining to do. The city’s soldiery would take a completely different view of his habits – and
Humourless thugs – they were all about the rules. No damned respect for age or seniority.
What was that old jest about soldiers looking younger every return?
He picked up the ash bucket to dispose of the evidence. Four hundred returns or not, it was probably wise to be careful.
The city had been in her infancy when Rhan had first come here. Still torn and bleeding, broken in body and in soul, he’d washed up at Fhaveon a shattered thing, uncomprehending of the punishment and responsibility that the God Samiel had decreed for him.
The price of his transgression – and the duty he’d carried ever since.
Garland House, at almost her highest point, had been the gift of the First Lord Tekissari, eldest child of Saluvarith the Founder, and, at that time, barely more than a youth.
Teki himself, his daughter the GreatHeart Rakanne who’d gifted terhnwood to the Varchinde, her son Adward the Consolidator who’d then brought that gift back under Fhaveon’s hegemony and designed the trade-rotations of the plains – from his very arrival, Rhan had stood by House Valiembor, parent and child, lord and leader. The God Samiel had decreed it, and so it must be. Each child of the city’s Lord, each newborn Foundersson or Daughter, had been placed in his white hands as a babe, and he’d held them against his chest – so tiny, so wondrous and inexplicable! – and sworn his limitless life in their defence.
And he’d upheld that oath. Always.
But as the returns had bled by, his very oath had become empty – what could challenge him? The city was secure, the plains at peace, the scufflings of the Council essentially trivial. The terhnwood grew, its circulation was sure; the grass was harvested. He had everything he could want and he was
He drained the wine, grimaced, looked for another.
But was halted by a quiet, smart and familiar rap at the door.
“My Lord.” Scythe was tall, slim, young, despicably efficient, and smart enough to keep his judgements to himself. He also entered rooms without waiting to be asked. “I have no wish to... wake you,” he said, “but there is something you should know.”
Something in his voice chased the faintest flicker of tension between Rhan’s shoulders. He put bucket and goblet down, straightened up, creaked again.
“What’s the problem?”
Scythe, pointedly ignoring the tangle of bodies at his feet, held something up to the light.
“There has been another attack, my Lord, another fire.”
The shock spread like opening wings – like the first breath of wind that warned of a storm to come. Something in the Powerflux; something that tinged the very edge of his elemental awareness...
“Scythe?” His voice was low, soft. “Where?”
Mutters stirred at his feet.
“From the farmlands north of Ikira, my Lord. The outermost edge of the terhnwood crop.”
For a moment, he said nothing. Scythe’s expression was absolutely blank.
“How long? Was anything found?”
“Evening yesterday, my Lord, and nothing has been found. The farmer sent her runner straight here.”
Implications rose out of the smoky morning, gibbering fears and threats. Plains fires in the summer were a known hazard, but there had been several of them reported, one after another, and something about them was striking him to his heart. A problem with the terhnwood crop, at this time of the return, would be beyond disastrous. If the harvest was in any way threatened...
Fhaveon, more than any other city in the Varchinde, was dependent upon her farmlands – not only for the tithe of food that fed her in return for her protection, but for the growth of the terhnwood that perpetuated the cycle of the Grasslands’ trade. Fhaveon’s crop was twice that of Amos and four times that of the southern city of Annondor – put simply, she was the Grasslands’ single biggest supplier. Without terhnwood, the political and social circulation of the Varchinde would be undone – and the disaster would spread.
But beneath this, there was a greater and more fundamental fear.
Somewhere deep in Rhan’s immortal soul, there came a flicker of white flame, a fare of long, long forgotten anticipation. He rubbed a hand over his face, flexed his back.
“Scythe. I need runners.”
