The Legend of Broken

have no need to. Both panther and sorcerer will sense my sincerity, and deal with me fairly: such great spirits do not demean themselves with the sort of petty viciousness you describe, Veloc. And later, after I have explained to them the — the peculiarities exhibited by you and our touched friend, over there, who—” Glancing at the last member of their party, Keera stops shouting for a moment. “Heldo-Bah — what in the Moon’s name are you doing to yourself?”

“If death will free me from this squabble …,” Heldo-Bah says, through lips that are crushed into deep grooves of the ash tree’s bark, “Then I swear to you, I almost welcome it … Blood of the Moon, Veloc! When, tell me, please, when have you ever judged a predicament more wisely than Keera?” Seeing that Veloc has no answer, Heldo-Bah moves away from the tree at last and bellows, “And so why, in the name of all that is unholy, are we still talking about this?”

“Quiet, fool!” Veloc whispers. “They may hear you — if they really are but two rises away, the sound will certainly—”

“They will hear me, cuckolder?” Heldo-Bah interrupts. “Oh, that is a new depth of dishonesty and dim-wittedness, even for you — the pair of you have been shouting at each other throughout the night. There’s nary a creature in Davon Wood that hasn’t heard you! Heard me … I hope the sorcerer hears me, that he may come and put an end to all this idiocy — that is, if he’s not somewhere around us right now! In fact, he likely is — indeed, he’s probably been here the entire time—” Without turning, Heldo-Bah points accusingly at the tree beneath which the three made their camp the night before: a broad, sheltering oak that stands nearby, protected by the coming together of two relatively small but sharp ridges in the slope of the mountain. “Yes — probably right in that damned tree, having himself a fine old laugh at how petty and imbecilic the Bane can be—”

Heldo-Bah stops suddenly, his arm still in the air. “Ahhh,” he noises, just as a man might release his final breath. “Your cursed, endless talk, Veloc … Ficksel …” The word is less a curse, on this occasion, than a statement of submission, even a kind of obscene prayer; and, blood- speckled as the upper part of his face may be, it quickly loses all inner color, while his lower jaw falls open ever wider.

“Heldo-Bah,” Keera says. “What is it — have you done yourself actual harm, you foolish—” She moves toward him, producing a small, clean kerchief, ready to mop the blood from his forehead and face. “You look as though you’ve seen a vision of your own death—”

“As I may well have,” Heldo-Bah says. “But — I was wrong concerning one detail. They are not in the oak.” Keeping his arm high, he points all the more urgently, now, just to the left of the oak, where, another ten feet along, stands a beautiful elm. Its delicately laced branches are markedly undamaged, for its being so high on the windswept mountain. “Death and his handmaiden — or is it the other way round? No matter, for there they are — in that elm …”

Keera and Veloc turn to follow their friend’s indication, and when they catch sight of the cause of his gaping shock, their faces and jaws, too, droop open.

Along the crotch of two long, low limbs of the elm lies a pale, glowing form, draped as one might a luxuriant white cloth upon a table, if one were expecting honored guests, or perhaps as one would bedeck an altar. But the folds of this drape are undulating: because, apparently, whatever is beneath it breathes, and the many lines of its surface are not, in fact, ripples of fabric, but the folds of powerful muscles. Toward the left extreme, two brilliant green orbs shine out, lit as if by the sun — despite the fact that the sun is not shining directly upon the spot. Finally, at each end, two long, lazy legs stretch and steady the apparition, while toward its rear, a tail flicks gently, very gently, its languorous movements speaking not of carelessness but of the near-effortless speed with which the creature itself could deliver death, if such a fancy should strike her.

Above this sight, the three foragers can just make out another form; and, once the cloud that has in fact been momentarily blocking the sun passes, this figure is clarified. Two human arms rest casually on elm branches as if they were arms of a chair, while the half-legs lie atop the haunches of the lounging creature below. Greyed hair streaked by patches of snowy white is scarcely contained by a faded black skullcap, while the long, hanging beard would seem to have been washed and combed, recently — or perhaps, given its rich fullness, even groomed with a boar-bristle brush. But the eyes, like those of the beast, catch the light of the day in such a way that they seem not to do so at all, but rather to radiate their own inner fire: an effect that is increased by the seeming smiles that fill the features of both forms, in the rather disconcerting manner of hungry hunters toying with their next meal.

“Let your arm drop, Bane,” the man says quietly, indicating Heldo-Bah with a nod of his chin. Then he pauses thoughtfully, contemplating his own words. “Well — that is odd. The first words I have spoken to another human in …” He quickly sharpens his wits and fastens his attention on the foragers once more. “Allow the wise young female among you to see to your head. You may indeed have done yourself some small injury, although I blame you not for it. It really was a most inscrutable conversation. Amusing, however …”

Keera is the first to recover herself: she thrusts the kerchief into Veloc’s hands, and says, “Get him cleaned up.” She then begins to walk, slowly and deliberately, toward the elm tree, wanting to examine the visitors but forcing herself to turn her gaze respectfully toward the ground.

“Health and long life to you,” she murmurs quietly, angry that she cannot keep her voice from trembling. “Lord Caliphestros …”

“I thank you, young Keera,” Caliphestros answers, in all sincerity and with a nod of appreciation. “Though the first of your wishes, regrettably, is no longer possible, while the second holds only limited interest for me. But why do you avert your eyes?”

“Is it not done?” Keera asks with some concern. “Upon encountering such superior creatures as yourselves?”

“Tetch,” noises Caliphestros. “I am no such thing. Although I cannot offer any similar assurance, so far as my companion is concerned. She cares precious little for humans, I know that much — but as for her being entirely of this world, well … Though a man of science, I have often had my doubts. But why do you all exhibit such surprise? Certainly, it was you yourselves who, some years ago, came upon our home, after you had received the packet of documents from my friend here.”

Her body quivering with sudden realization, Keera turns to Veloc and Heldo-Bah quickly. “The letters …”

“So it was him,” Veloc answers quietly. “Just as you suspected, Keera.”

Heldo-Bah closes his eyes. “Thank Kafra’s golden stones and the Moon itself that we bothered to deliver the damned things …”

“I don’t understand,” Caliphestros says. “Surely, when you saw who my messenger was, and then followed her to our dwelling—”

“But we never did see her, my lord,” Keera replies. “We found the leather pouch in the center of our camp, when we awoke one morning. And, while it is true that we followed the tracks of a panther that we thought might be the white legend to what we supposed to be your camp, we never saw either of you. Indeed, Heldo-Bah, there—”

Heldo-Bah looks at Keera as if identifying him with her mere finger has been little short of signing his death warrant; but he feebly raises a hand and bows his head. “My lord,” he mumbles, not knowing what else to say.

“—he thought that the panther we had tracked had likely killed and consumed you, and that such explained why, although your camp seemed perfectly tended, we did not see any signs of life.”

“Ha!” Caliphestros laughs, plainly pleased by every aspect of this story. He looks down at the panther, who turns her head up to him and slowly closes and opens her eyes several times in deep affection, seemingly knowing that she is at least one of the causes of her companion’s merriment. The old man reaches down to scratch the top of the head that rises, atop the animal’s extending, powerful neck, to meet his fingers. “There truly is no end to this one’s cleverness …”

Bringing his hand back up, Caliphestros indicates the foragers once more. “When she returned so soon, I knew that you, or other Bane as capable as yourselves, were about, and that, being members of a curious and intrepid race, you would not be able to resist at least an attempt to find the lair of what you might well think to be the fabled white panther of Davon Wood, whose tracks would have been near the pouch when you discovered it.