The Man In The Wind (4 page)

       In the dim light offered by the vents in the stove, Rai’s jaw line hardened. “He killed me.”

       It appeared to be the end of the story, but so many questions remained unanswered that Iris could not stop herself from inquiring further. Fortunately, her question was simple. “What?”

       “I’m not sure,” Rai admitted. He had stretched himself out in the space beside the bed, and now he leaned back on his arms, staring contemplatively at the peaked ceiling. “It’s the clearest remembrance I have, and yet I still can’t work out exactly what transpired. By the time I woke up, the wound had already healed, so I never knew what it was from.”

       “You mean to tell me that a king visited a foreign town, killed a child, and no one ever heard about it?” The girl was incredulous. She may not have had the most spotless criminal record herself, but a murder like that was incomprehensible. “If it was as big a deal as you say, there must have been a huge amount of witnesses. Enough to get him thrown in prison, royalty or not.”

       “You’d think,” agreed the boy. “That’s why I’m positive it was a setup. There’s no way he would’ve gotten away with it if they hadn’t handed me to him.” The conclusion was logical, but it didn’t prevent Iris from becoming irate.

       “I don’t need to remind you that you were a child when this occurred,” she said, fuming. “A child!”

       “I wasn’t a normal child, though.” His voice was heavy with the resignation that comes from being told the same thing many times. “I may not be able to tell you specifics, but I know that my power was inborn. I could move things without getting up, or revive cut flowers after they died. There was an incident involving a dog that had been run over.  It made me very unpopular everywhere we went. Witchcraft, people said.”

       “What about your parents?” Iris asked. Coming from a rich family who had spoiled the hell out of their only beloved daughter, she was unable to wrap her mind around the possibility that a mother and father would so willingly provide their own offspring for a sacrifice, no matter how out of place he was. Rai could do little more than shrug.

       “They did their best…for a while. I think the pressure of all the rumors got to them. I suppose it was worse because, by and large, everything being said was true. But I can’t say for sure that they were part of whatever plan there was. They could have been killed. I never saw them afterward.”

       “I’m sorry.” Irish flinched at how weak and small the words sounded in the aftermath of such a brutal recollection. She was a little taken aback when Rai didn’t even blink.

      “It was a long time ago,” he said. He noticed, however, the look a subdued shock on her face, and he continued, keeping his eyes on her. “You already know what I did for Serberos after he brought me back to his kingdom. It’s a wonder that I can still feel anything at all.”

       Can you? Iris wanted to say. She stopped herself out of a need to keep from uttering anymore stupid things. Deciding it would be safer to change her tack a little, she moved on to the issue of his apparent physical invulnerability, albeit more abruptly than she’d intended. “Why don’t you get hurt?” God, she thought, do I always sound like such a brat? 

       He was unfazed. “Serberos told me himself that after he slew me, my soul was bonded to an object. As long as that object remains untouched, I will continue to exist.” He was careful not to use the word live; it tasted bitter in his mouth. “If it were to be destroyed, I would die immediately.”

       “What is it?”

       “Not even Serberos knows. He entrusted a small team of men to make arrangements as to its security, and then when they were finished, he killed them all. This means that in all likelihood, I will survive for…an ungodly amount of time.” He didn’t often consider his own immortality, because it did not please him. Thinking about it now, a dark look slid across his features.

       “If you could locate it, what would you do?”

       Rai glanced at her. “It would be dishonest to say I don’t think about that.” She waited. He did not elaborate. A deep silence settled between them, and she let it be for a few long minutes. Then something troublesome crossed her mind and she was forced to voice her concerns.

       “The king,” she said. “When did you say he would notice you’re gone?”

       “Sunrise.” Rai spoke with absolute certainty. “He checks on me himself. Like clockwork.” He watched as a small, dry smile crept onto Iris’ face.

       “Well,” she said, “then he’ll be missing you any minute now.”

       Serberos, Reigning Sovereign of Volikar, cursed to himself as he made his way up the stone staircase leading to the eastern tower. Years ago, this had been easy, but now his joints were old and rickety, aching in protest every time he moved to ascend even a single stair. Still, he refused to entrust this particular task to any of his subordinates, despite their repeated offers of help. Instead, they had taken to trailing behind him like a gaggle of apprehensive ducklings, ready to catch their aging king if he should so much as tremble.    

       “Really, though, Your Majesty,” they would say. “There’s no need for you to be taking such risks. Surely you can allow us to do this for you.” Always, the old man screwed up his pointed face and let out a roar, though the sound was gradually growing hoarse and thin.

       “No! I must see him for myself.” And off he would hobble toward the stairwell, grimacing, leaning on his cane. Yes, Serberos, once bloodthirsty and ruthless, walked with not only a cane, but a stoop in his shoulders as well. It made him look feeble; he knew this and hated it with a passion. Rousing the necromancer was his own way of sending a message to his staff. A proud king needs no help from you.

       Also—and he admitted this only to himself—the daily checks were a way for Serberos to show himself that he was not afraid. From the very first time he had sent the boy out onto the battlefield, he had seen the extent of the child’s power, the manner in which he rose the dead as though they were nothing more than playthings. Just as Serberos had been told, the boy’s own death only served to enhance his strength; his own innate death magic was the very thing sustaining him. Quickly, he had learned to control it. And then he had learned to wield it. More than once, the thought had slipped into Serberos’ mind that his servant—his slave—might try to rebel, and he knew that if such was ever the case, he was essentially powerless by his own design. The only thing that controlled the necromancer was now a mystery, its identity buried with the corpses of those who had hidden it.

       So, it was not without worry that Volikar’s notorious ruler climbed the steps. Age had hastened the onset of paranoia; he had become increasingly convinced that one day, he would swing open that heavy wooden door and be met with an empty room. Realistically, the fear was baseless. The chamber in which the necromancer was kept had a single window that was too high and too small for the captive to pass through, and it would be impossible for someone of that size and stature to pass unnoticed through the castle. In fact, Serberos had made completely sure that the boy never had the chance to learn the castle’s layout. When he was removed for battle duty, he was hooded like a falcon.

       Even so, the gnawing dread in the king’s stomach did nothing but grow. The thought of somehow losing his necromancer—the one who had built his army and his reputation—chewed at the corners of his fraying mind. It kept him up at night, and when he did sleep, he had dark, foreboding dreams wherein his precious sorcerer stole away into the night. Serberos knew full well that the boy was not subject to mortal perils as others were, that he would be able to handily survive everything the harsh climate could conjure. The satisfaction of knowing that he perished within hours of escape would never come. There would never be a body.

       These were the ruminations that occupied the monarch’s mind with regularity, and they were present as he finally surmounted the staircase and shuffled over to duck behind the false corner in which the passageway was hidden. Due to his ancient frailty, Serberos hardly had to turn in order to wedge himself between the walls, but he did need to hand his cane off to one of the aides who did not accompany him into the narrow crevice. Unencumbered, he trailed one hand along the cold, slightly damp wall, taking tiny steps in an effort to preserve his precarious balance. As he neared the dungeon door, he found himself again plagued by qualms, and he had to stop before the knob and crush them beneath the weight of reason. His advisers had counseled him over and over that the nightmare scenario of the necromancer’s flight could never happen, that it was an impossible eventuality, and he had slowly learned to take their advice to heart. Once his hands were steady, Serberos reached for the doorknob, confident that his subordinate would be waiting.

       Imagine his surprise when he found his fears confirmed. The cell was empty; what little light came in through the tiny window shone down on a barren floor. Standing in the doorway, backed by a cadre of his minions, Serberos felt his expression contort into one of dumbfounded shock, which was shortly followed by rage. He burst across the threshold, baring his teeth like a lion.

       “What is this?” he bellowed, and his voice was more fearsome than any of his men had heard it in a long time. “What am I seeing?” Wild-eyed, he wheeled around to glare at them, expecting an answer.

       “Sir?” The unfortunate man in front was young and fresh-faced, eyebrows knitted in concern. Like many of the others, he had quickly formed the opinion that the king was halfway senile. Now, as he gazed into those milky, maniacal eyes, he was sure of it.

       “Nothing!” Flecks of spittle flew from Serberos’ withered lips. “The boy is gone! How did this happen?” Reality seemed to come crashing down upon the servants in the wake of their sovereign’s words. Eyes widened, faces went slack. The young man in the front took a step back. In the king’s frosted eyes, a fire burned. “Perhaps no one heard me,” he spat venomously. “How did this happen?”

       “No one heard anything, your Majesty.” The royal steward, a stern, elderly man, stepped forward, gracefully allowing his young colleague to slip behind his back. “It is inconceivable that this has happened.” And in some sense, that was the truth. Not once in the years and years since the boy’s capture had he ever come up missing, and as he stood at the mouth of the room, Steward Tarnslen, swept the vicinity with an unflappable scrutiny. Sure enough, the necromancer was not there. He sighed internally. Until he was located, life would be…difficult.

       “Inconceivable or not, this room is abandoned.” Serberos’ eyes narrowed to steely slivers. “And I shall not rest until it is filled again.” He lowered his gravelly voice. “Understood?”

       “Perfectly, my liege. We shall treat it as a war, if that’s what you desire.” He stepped aside as Serberos moved back toward the exit.

       “Steward.” The king’s voice was raw with hatred. “I desire revenge.”

---

       Moments after Iris had spoken, the truth of her words struck them square in the face: they were fugitives now. Iris remembered what Rai had said not three hours prior as they made their way down the corridor. He will hunt us down. Judging by the things she had heard about Serberos, it was not an exaggeration. They had to be ready.

       “Running isn’t an option,” Rai was saying. “Not right now. His forces can cover much more ground than either of us, and I doubt you would survive another bout in the cold.” She handed him a thin sheet of something and pointed to the stove. He used it to block the flue. “We need to hide.”

       “Fine by me,” Iris replied. “Might mean you have to piss in a bottle, but I’d much rather do that than get torn apart by hungry wolfbears, or whatever.”

       “I don’t have bodily functions,” Rai said. “I don’t eat or drink, so there’s nothing to waste.” The girl was rapidly becoming accustomed to the strange details of her new companion’s person, and she was slightly surprised by how little this information bothered her.

       “You are just full of wonders,” she said. She could feel him glance at her, trying to gauge how much of that had been a joke. Eventually, he gave up and kept speaking. She smiled.

       “Anyway, there’s some good news, which is that he didn’t have wolfbears or trackers. He had me. And because my body is sustained by magic and not biological functions, I don’t leave much of a trail. But you do, so we’ll still have to be careful.”