|| The Knight's Ephemeris / Prologue ||

|| The Knight's Ephemeris / Prologue ||

|| Clausewitz // The Prologue||


Had they been sojourning under the light of day, their lives would have been good as forfeit.

Cautious ever of the night, of its intractable dynamics of cloud and shade, they had assumed the burden of absolute stealth. Speech was a rarity, a luxury held in abeyance that only when the chirp of cicadas, crowing of lone birds overhead ceased, was given free rein. Otherwise, words were to be repressed all the way down their stomachs. Even if mouths did run free, even then there was little to be said.

There were simply carrying out their duty.

It had become a feat of strength of mind thus far, every step of the journey having been taxing their hearts. Interruption came in by the most trivial forms, and they oft broke their stride for whisperings of the snow; to avoid sideways glances – unwanted attention – they had resorted to moving in travelling parties, as was the normal practice in Asphzein these days, disguised as any other sensible but devoted pilgrim. Such was the nature of their Duty. But as it had been for several weeks, no road eased their feet in their travels through the deserted plains of the Kynas, and no sane being would dare it for any amount of wealth promised. Worldly incentive held no place in the minds of these men, but a much more compelling reward – and consequence, had urged them onwards.

“This is the place,” one voice intoned, shrouded to a whisper. “Lay down the child.”

As the others complied, the mounting expectation of relief finally washed over them, calmed their souls. Hands, fingers, fingertips no longer fraught with their charge, their roles had at last been played.

Finally.

The severed chains of burden and carrier tickled them with heady joy. In the next instant, all three of them removed their cowls and breathed in the sweet scent of the night’s breeze. Smearing into their lungs was air, but to them, their lungs were bloating with triumph, more than they should have allowed really; but right now nothing could restrain their roving relief.

But if they felt joviality, it was not shown on their faces. No matter what they had accomplished here today, they were not free of other obligations appropriate to abide by when Outside. Though, by revealing themselves it was a declaration that death, no longer manacled them with fear. Through the absence of the cowl, any unprepared spying eye would have faltered on stable footing; for these men were mythical creatures, elusive even on the lips of drunken troubadours, if ever spoken about at all. The Tyrian Nevus on their faces spoke for itself.

“Such a deathly slumber,” a different voice breathed, the silence having been an itch on his tongue. Now that the deed was over, a semblance of normality crept into the increasing volume of his voice. “He hasn’t stirred once, and his breathing is just an occasional gasp. Are we sure he’ll survive the night?”

The question was, even to him, foolish. It evoked images of the lengths they had gone through to see this particular day over – they had endured, chafed at any delay, and endured some more. Trials mounted upon trials, mistakes begetting disaster – all three of them, if not discreetly, glared at their charge. Yet they knew better, and the narrowed eyes softened.

“If he doesn’t, then our five months’ toil is for naught,” said another. He stooped, kneeling in order to examine the small figure sprawled on the earth, getting a better view. “Make a bit of an effort, Cerias. Think before you blurt something out. There’s no need to worry.”

“Worry!” exclaimed Cerias, throwing his arms up expressively, “Worry is in order when a child of his age doesn’t take up anything to his mouth, glue his eyes closed – and despite all that oddity, manages to sketch cursed symbols on his stomach! Worry, you say.”

The outbreak was met with favorable reception. They had travelled long – and hard – and what was more, during winter’s jilt of sunny warmth. But they had never seen the boy consume the minutest amount of food nor drink; frugal as such had been. No, their primary charge was a statue: a moving puppet with the face of an imperious regnant, solemn and dormant; untold stories layered over the perpetual calm.

The only signs of movement he had shown were during a night they should and would, never spoke casually of. In the earlier days of their expedition, their first leg of the journey involved crossing the ranges of Mount Skilieth and his brothers. It was old into the night that they chanced camp to recuperate from a travel that pushed sleep as too expensive. There had been even the rare reprieve from the unearthly wintry caresses of mountain gusts in the form of fire. The one responsible for night watch had been gnawing at his own hair to fend off the oncoming tides of slumber. But though he dozed, his ears were trained and with a shout of alarm he had woken the others. They rushed to the boy. It had been a strange mix of dread and excitement - had the boy woken at last?

But when the quivering arm had ceased, something other than Skilieth’s timely squall froze them.

A handful of snow had been thrown up on the boy’s open mouth. Furs wrapped up to sustain heat, peeled away to expose a pale stomach. But it was the subtle gleam and residue left on his lips that had stopped them dead.

From saliva and snow, the boy had nearly completed a ritual of denial; a spell that beckoned the Stairs’ jaws to yawn for the caster.
One practice, they dared not even label it with a name lest ill luck hovered about them for many a days to come.

They had only recognized it by the reckless evil it rang in their heads. And perhaps they were the only ones left on this land to recognize such a heinous thing – it was another nature of their office to study such things and, eliminate it. But they did not draw their weapons. They had to bend for an exception; their orders had been explicit.

It is imperative he survives every waking moment of your journey. Do what you have been instructed; nothing more, and nothing less. Failure. . .When failure is heard about this, your faces will no longer be welcome inside these walls.

As a result, the boy was bound by rope – or by watchful presence of others, discreet hands – until further listlessness proved he was no longer a threat to his own life, or theirs. How in the world, that the boy had come to know such an ancient and anathematized fracture of lore, was lost to them as voyage bound their questions shut inside their mouths. They could not even know what had stopped him from finishing the ritual. From their continuing observations however, it was clear to them that the boy was not normal, if any a breathing corpse of a twelve year old boy was normal at all.

“Well Cerias, if he has grown onto you, then you may stay,” the man stooping rose, and said with a chuckle. “But as for us, Nesilai and I, we must return home. . . If all went well, then a newborn should be waiting for this one to be its father.” Locked in the head between Tyhaizen’s arms, Nesilai offered no protest but smiled at the very thought.

“Yes well, congratulations, as I’ve said fifty thousand times already.” the youngest of them all, Cerias sneered and crossed his arms. “What I don’t get is how you can speak about a child so plainly when we are. . . Abandoning one right smack middle of where-”

“As I said, you can stay.”

The taller man pulled his arm free from the playful torture, his gaze serious, intent on Cerias. The thin smile had curled downwards.

“No, but you know the question that’s bothered us all this journey, Tyhaizen. . . Just what is he?”

At this Nesilai stepped forth, and rested a light hand Cerias’ shoulder. A warm smile lit his face, but his free hand had a finger wagging in front of the younger man’s lips. Cerias, surprised by the intervention, understood the meaning of his actions and laughed. The lighthearted gesture spoke of stern words.

“I’m sorry, I’ve already began to forget our oaths of silence. . . What a heavy burden for people who like to speak! Sometimes I could barely restrain myself in our journey. But I guess that barely bothered you, brother.”

Resigning to follow Tyhaizen’s wishes, Cerias replied Nesilai in earnest, an arm around his shoulder as the older man nudged him at the ribs with elbow, yet good-natured against the jesting of his disability. Cerias smiled sheepishly, thankful that Nesilai had no taken his slip of words offensively, and he disciplined himself mentally for the mistake – for the man was mute, not deaf.

Heaving a sigh, Cerias chanced one last glance at the immobile contours of the boy behind him, and as he was joined by Tyhaizen in their interlocking of arms, clicked his tongue but wrenched himself to look forwards. It had been an objective and distant goal during their journey, and months of tending to the boy had stirred emotions within him. As it was now, their mission at last drawn to a close, he could not help but feel a sour aftertaste on his tongue for leaving a boy – or any living being, in fact – so defenseless, in the wilderness of unspeakable perils. Even they were not completely free from danger here, where sinister feet stalked under the clouds.

‘Nyreliasatisyulura, zsiberiaya.’

Could have it been any clearer?

In their alarm, their hands drew their weapons in swift flurry. Short swords glistened under the waxing moonlight, shorn of cloud cover. But no warcry rose to be carried over the rising winds, and no steel flashed in reply to their caution. As empty rolling hills of swaying grass lit to view, their poise on their swords gradually relaxed.

“That,” Cerias breathed, his voice lowered once again. “was the old tongue of the Verzili. I know this because old Hafas teaches the Jeiolites.” The sword danced between his fingers, nimble digits to soar the weapon through the air, still keen on an enemy. Shortly after Cerias’ muttering, Tyhaizen unsheathed a dagger, firm in his left hand. Never trust silence. Quiet did not equal absence.

“And what does old Hafas teach of Verzilis remnants in the wild?” said Tyhaizen, serious in his inquisition, the appraisal bearing no welcome thoughts into his head.

The moment passed without event. Cerias slid home steel back to wooden sheath. Tyhaizen, still unsure, scanned the surroundings once, twice more edgily. It was Nesilai that slapped him on the back, if not impatiently, and reassured, Tyhaizen composed himself. Then the three of them were looking back at the child, lifeless as ever, but an atmosphere of ominous secrecy exuding, hurried and quick as the words had sounded. Had the moon been full, the aura might have been tangible.

“He says that no such things should exist, and even if it does, it’s nothing good to us.”

Already reading between the lines, Cerias shook himself, pulling free a cloak tucked underneath his belt, acting as a half-skirt under the midnight robes of camouflage. Clipping it over himself, he gently pulled Nesilai’s elbow to follow, the direction which they had come. It was time to go.

“Let’s go, the breeze is strengthening, and our scent might be a sore to sensitive noses.”

“Wait, Cerias, what did he-“

“Do you really want to know, Tyhaizen? Wouldn’t you rather see Nesilai’s firstborn?”

At that, Tyhaizen stopped, and bent to the wishes that Cerias’ eyes were speaking: let things be. The brief ordeal shattered what small affinity he had felt to the boy, and Cerias was reminded of that unforgettable night, and the needlessness of his affections.

What boy who fed himself nothing, saw nothing, do and speak only evil, had in place in the world as normal?

Surely then, detachment would hold no consequence over his head. Believing that, Cerias bunched his cloak close to his body and loosed the hood over his head. With an afterthought, he fitted the cowl back on. They would not be home soon enough to bare their faces so boldly.

Whatever the boy had said, Cerias was determined to ignore. It was probably foolish doing so, considering the circumstances those words were spoken and the overt malignance in them. But being where he was, Kynith territory, Cerias realized that whether he – or it? – survived the night no longer mattered. He had done his part.

The fact that they had been in unwelcome territory far too long sparked in his mind, and before the first rays of dawn would emerge, they would be making quick pace for their returning journey.

There was fairer fate waiting for him back home than what the boy had just cursed him to take.