Sweep in Peace
Page 50
“Greetings to House Meer,” I said.
Next to me Robart had a deeply pleased look on his face. He was the only Marshall who’d come to meet them. Two of his knights waited nearby, their faces grim, looking like they were ready to repel an attack at a moment’s notice. Apparently, Lord Robart’s affinity for House Meer wasn’t shared by those under his command.
The oldest knight opened his mouth. The biggest of the three, his mane of jet black hair streaked with grey, was clearly the leader. It was strange to think that in a few decades, Arland would look like that.
“Greetings, Innkeeper,” he said, his voice a deep growl.
“Lord Beneger,” Robart said.
“Lord Robart,” the leader answered.
No standard, no display, no ceremony. The vampires thrived on ceremony. The House Meer was here, but they were making it clear they weren’t visiting in an official capacity. I had only seen vampire delegations do this four times, and every single time it was done so the House could deny it sanctioned the actions of its members.
“Follow me.” I led them through the back of the house to the balcony overlooking the festival grounds. Arland, Lady Isur, and the rest of their vampires occupied the far right side of the balcony, House Vorga the middle, and the Nuan Cee’s clan took up the far left.
Below us the otrokari were checking piles of wood. They had arranged the logs I provided into a circular bonfire at the south end of the circle created by my stream and made four smaller piles along the water. The bark on some of the logs was red and purple. They must’ve brought some of their own wood.
The scarred knight from House Meer looked down on them, and spat on the balcony. “Blasphemy.”
He spat on my inn.
I smiled as sweetly as I could. “Next time you choose to spit, my lord, the stones under your feet will part.”
The scarred knight glared at me.
“We are guests here, Uriel,” Lord Berenger said. “My apologies, Innkeeper.”
Apologies or not, the next time Lord Uriel decided to hack some phlegm, he would regret it.
The otrokari formed a ring around the festival grounds. While we spoke, the night had snuck in on soft fox paws, turning the far east sky a deep beautiful purple. Twilight claimed the clearing, the light of the sunset diluted by encroaching darkness. Shadows deepened and grew treacherous, the wind died down, and the first hint of the stars studded the sky.
The otrokari shaman stepped into the circle drawn by my stream, entering from the north. He wore only a long, layered leather kilt. Strange symbols drawn in pale green and white marked his exposed torso. His hair streamed loose about his face. Some strands were braided with a leather cord, decorated with bone and wooden beads.
Fire burst in the two piles on his left and right all on its own. He kept walking, the lines of his muscular but lean body oddly beautiful. The fire jumped to the other two piles, then to the bonfire. An insistent drum beat sounded, growing more and more urgent, as the three otrokari on the edge began to play big bloated drums. A wild eerie melody of pipes that hadn’t come from any wood or grass born on Earth issued a challenge, the simplest kind of music brought to life by a sentient being’s breath. The shaman turned his head, his long dark hair flying, spun like a dervish, and began to dance.
The otrokari clapped as one, picking up the rhythm of the drums. The shaman whirled and twisted, his movements born from the grace and speed of a hunter closing on its prey, wild and strangely primal, as if every layer of civilization had been ripped away from him and what remained was a creature, fruit of the planet that birthed it, as timeless as life itself. It was impossible to look away.
The otrokari began to sing, a simple exuberant melody. I couldn’t understand the words, but the meaning was clear. I live. I survived. I’m here.
Breath caught in my chest. I realized with absolute clarity that one day I was going to die. I would no longer be here. All of the things I wanted, all my thoughts, all my worries – all of it would be gone with me, lost forever. There were so many things I wanted to do. So much I still wanted to see. I had to hold on to it. I had to hold to every short second of life. Every breath was a gift, gone forever to the cold stars the moment I exhaled.
I wanted to cry.
The symbols on shaman’s body glowed, weak at first, than brighter and brighter. The flames of the fires turned pale yellow, then olive, then a bright emerald green, matching the radiance of the shaman’s markings. The wood no longer fueled it; the blaze raged on its own.
Shadows rose among the otrokari, translucent silhouettes without features, silent and standing still.
The shaman twisted, bending backward, his supple body nearly parallel to the ground, and suddenly a simple wooden staff was in his hand. He spun the staff, turning it into a blur, planted it into the ground, and clawed at the sky with his free hand. The glowing coals from the bonfire rolled to him, forming a narrow scorching path to the blaze.
The shaman froze, poised on his toes, leaning back slightly, rigid, every muscle on his body tight, like a genius ballet dancer frozen in a moment just before the leap. His eyes glowed with deep purple, otherworldly, as if the distant planet itself stared through him. He held out his left arm to the side.
The Khanum emerged from the shadows and came to stand next to him. She wore a simple tunic. Her feet were bare. The shaman’s hand clamped her shoulder.
A wave of translucent purple dashed through the green light of the coal path. A shadow appeared in the heart of the bonfire.
The Khanum stepped onto the coal path and walked quickly to the blaze. With every step, the shadow became clearer. Arms formed, the lines of the shoulders and the neck streamlined, hair sprouted, and features formed in the oval of the face. A young otrokari man stood in the flames. He looked like Dagorkun.
They were so close now, she could almost touch him. The Khanum stood still on the coals, one hand raised, as if trying to touch her dead son. Her bare feet burned, but still she refused to move.
Dagorkun moved in from the side and took his mother by her hand. The shadow in the fire nodded to his brother. Dagorkun nodded back and gently led the Khanum away, back to the others. The shadow melted into the light.
I realized I was crying.
Another otrokar stepped to the shaman. A second wave of purple, a second shadow, another trip down the coal path. A woman this time, older, wearing the otrokar armor.
One by one the otrokari came, each finding another loved one in the fire. Dead wives, dead husbands, fallen parents, children taken before their time… Some only stayed for a brief glance, but most lingered, enduring the pain for a chance to see someone they lost one more time.
Next to me Robart had a deeply pleased look on his face. He was the only Marshall who’d come to meet them. Two of his knights waited nearby, their faces grim, looking like they were ready to repel an attack at a moment’s notice. Apparently, Lord Robart’s affinity for House Meer wasn’t shared by those under his command.
The oldest knight opened his mouth. The biggest of the three, his mane of jet black hair streaked with grey, was clearly the leader. It was strange to think that in a few decades, Arland would look like that.
“Greetings, Innkeeper,” he said, his voice a deep growl.
“Lord Beneger,” Robart said.
“Lord Robart,” the leader answered.
No standard, no display, no ceremony. The vampires thrived on ceremony. The House Meer was here, but they were making it clear they weren’t visiting in an official capacity. I had only seen vampire delegations do this four times, and every single time it was done so the House could deny it sanctioned the actions of its members.
“Follow me.” I led them through the back of the house to the balcony overlooking the festival grounds. Arland, Lady Isur, and the rest of their vampires occupied the far right side of the balcony, House Vorga the middle, and the Nuan Cee’s clan took up the far left.
Below us the otrokari were checking piles of wood. They had arranged the logs I provided into a circular bonfire at the south end of the circle created by my stream and made four smaller piles along the water. The bark on some of the logs was red and purple. They must’ve brought some of their own wood.
The scarred knight from House Meer looked down on them, and spat on the balcony. “Blasphemy.”
He spat on my inn.
I smiled as sweetly as I could. “Next time you choose to spit, my lord, the stones under your feet will part.”
The scarred knight glared at me.
“We are guests here, Uriel,” Lord Berenger said. “My apologies, Innkeeper.”
Apologies or not, the next time Lord Uriel decided to hack some phlegm, he would regret it.
The otrokari formed a ring around the festival grounds. While we spoke, the night had snuck in on soft fox paws, turning the far east sky a deep beautiful purple. Twilight claimed the clearing, the light of the sunset diluted by encroaching darkness. Shadows deepened and grew treacherous, the wind died down, and the first hint of the stars studded the sky.
The otrokari shaman stepped into the circle drawn by my stream, entering from the north. He wore only a long, layered leather kilt. Strange symbols drawn in pale green and white marked his exposed torso. His hair streamed loose about his face. Some strands were braided with a leather cord, decorated with bone and wooden beads.
Fire burst in the two piles on his left and right all on its own. He kept walking, the lines of his muscular but lean body oddly beautiful. The fire jumped to the other two piles, then to the bonfire. An insistent drum beat sounded, growing more and more urgent, as the three otrokari on the edge began to play big bloated drums. A wild eerie melody of pipes that hadn’t come from any wood or grass born on Earth issued a challenge, the simplest kind of music brought to life by a sentient being’s breath. The shaman turned his head, his long dark hair flying, spun like a dervish, and began to dance.
The otrokari clapped as one, picking up the rhythm of the drums. The shaman whirled and twisted, his movements born from the grace and speed of a hunter closing on its prey, wild and strangely primal, as if every layer of civilization had been ripped away from him and what remained was a creature, fruit of the planet that birthed it, as timeless as life itself. It was impossible to look away.
The otrokari began to sing, a simple exuberant melody. I couldn’t understand the words, but the meaning was clear. I live. I survived. I’m here.
Breath caught in my chest. I realized with absolute clarity that one day I was going to die. I would no longer be here. All of the things I wanted, all my thoughts, all my worries – all of it would be gone with me, lost forever. There were so many things I wanted to do. So much I still wanted to see. I had to hold on to it. I had to hold to every short second of life. Every breath was a gift, gone forever to the cold stars the moment I exhaled.
I wanted to cry.
The symbols on shaman’s body glowed, weak at first, than brighter and brighter. The flames of the fires turned pale yellow, then olive, then a bright emerald green, matching the radiance of the shaman’s markings. The wood no longer fueled it; the blaze raged on its own.
Shadows rose among the otrokari, translucent silhouettes without features, silent and standing still.
The shaman twisted, bending backward, his supple body nearly parallel to the ground, and suddenly a simple wooden staff was in his hand. He spun the staff, turning it into a blur, planted it into the ground, and clawed at the sky with his free hand. The glowing coals from the bonfire rolled to him, forming a narrow scorching path to the blaze.
The shaman froze, poised on his toes, leaning back slightly, rigid, every muscle on his body tight, like a genius ballet dancer frozen in a moment just before the leap. His eyes glowed with deep purple, otherworldly, as if the distant planet itself stared through him. He held out his left arm to the side.
The Khanum emerged from the shadows and came to stand next to him. She wore a simple tunic. Her feet were bare. The shaman’s hand clamped her shoulder.
A wave of translucent purple dashed through the green light of the coal path. A shadow appeared in the heart of the bonfire.
The Khanum stepped onto the coal path and walked quickly to the blaze. With every step, the shadow became clearer. Arms formed, the lines of the shoulders and the neck streamlined, hair sprouted, and features formed in the oval of the face. A young otrokari man stood in the flames. He looked like Dagorkun.
They were so close now, she could almost touch him. The Khanum stood still on the coals, one hand raised, as if trying to touch her dead son. Her bare feet burned, but still she refused to move.
Dagorkun moved in from the side and took his mother by her hand. The shadow in the fire nodded to his brother. Dagorkun nodded back and gently led the Khanum away, back to the others. The shadow melted into the light.
I realized I was crying.
Another otrokar stepped to the shaman. A second wave of purple, a second shadow, another trip down the coal path. A woman this time, older, wearing the otrokar armor.
One by one the otrokari came, each finding another loved one in the fire. Dead wives, dead husbands, fallen parents, children taken before their time… Some only stayed for a brief glance, but most lingered, enduring the pain for a chance to see someone they lost one more time.
