Corlas laughed bitterly. ‘What help is a tiny bird?’
The bird scratched its head idly with a claw. ‘Companionship is not measured by size or shape, and it can be good to talk if one is troubled. Perhaps you will tell me what has befallen you?’
Corlas’s faced darkened.
‘Something I’ve learned,’ the bird said, ‘is that if one hoards his feelings like gold, he can expect to collect interest. And, like wealth, too much misery can drive a man insane. Perhaps your heavy mind would lighten if you shared its load?’
Corlas closed his eyes as sadness welled up within, like water pushing against a dam. Perhaps he did need to talk to someone. Yes, came soft words somewhere in his mind, encouraging, understanding. Speak.
The dam burst and words gushed in a torrent. Corlas told the bird everything: about the death of his wife, the birth and theft of his son, the days or weeks following as he’d roamed the wood, forcing himself to keep on living, to put food in his mouth and lie down to sleep, instead of climbing a tree to throw himself off. Then the soldiers had come looking for the pendant, bringing with them the information he’d needed – the whereabouts of his child. At the end of the deluge his voice was hoarse. Only then did he realise he had been shouting in anger.
‘Those are terrible things to happen to a person,’ said the bird, full of compassion. ‘Terrible things. You poor fellow.’ Its eyes flickered. ‘Did the soldiers manage to rob you of the pendant as well? After they had taken everything else?’
‘I do not know where it went,’ murmured Corlas. His bleary gaze shot up. ‘I do not care! It’s my son whom I travel to find, not a piece of jewellery!’
‘Of course,’ soothed the bird. ‘Of course. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
Be calm, came an urging in Corlas’s mind, quietly enough to seem his own. His breathing slowed and he calmed. It had been cathartic to yell and scream, to pour out his unspoken troubles.
‘We should talk some more,’ said the bird, ‘but for now I think it’s time you rested. You’re very tired, and I did interrupt you going to sleep.’
Corlas was indeed tired, and growing more so by the second. The bird flitted off his arm and landed on the ground. ‘Do you have a name, little bird?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ said the bird, the fire reflecting in its blood-drop eyes. ‘It’s Iassia. What’s yours?’
‘Corlas,’ said Corlas, and slept.
‘Well, Corlas,’ said Iassia, ‘it looks like we might travel a way together, you and I. Perhaps quite a way.’
Iassia chuckled softly to himself as he sent out thoughts towards Battu. Prized by Arkus indeed …
It was true that weavers had been created by Arkus long ago in his Garden of Paradise, but the rest of the story was a bit more complicated. It seemed that Arkus, in his vanity, could not stand to make anything simple, so he’d given his birds power and intellect despite the mundane nature of their intended function. He had expected them to be happy flitting prettily from tree to tree, entertaining others with their songs and playful natures. Iassia wondered how a god could be so stupid.
Back in the days before the gods went to war, Assedrynn, Lampet, Elsara or any of the Dark Gods had often visited the Garden – and in fact Arkus had created a great lake there to make them feel more at home. Assedrynn had enjoyed speaking with the weaver birds, and saw potential where Arkus saw only pretty plumage. He had also noticed that, as the birds grew ever more bored, some of their tricks and jokes took on a nastier flavour. As disagreement erupted between Arkus and Assedrynn, the birds continued to do what was in their nature. As they carried messages, they encouraged misinformation between the gods and told Assedrynn things that Arkus would not have wished him to know. We were brash, thought Iassia, but we were created brash.
War began, and no longer did Assedrynn visit the Garden, so the respect he had paid the weavers went too. The birds grew restless, their tricks more malicious. One weaver, whose common name was Osesha, managed to ruin a burgeoning love pact between two of Arkus’s retinue, and Arkus was enraged. He called together all the weavers and warned them that their games had gone too far, that they were expected to entertain and amuse, not to harm. As further warning, he destroyed Osesha. The birds were silent before his wrath, but they remembered what Assedrynn had said about the importance of being true to one’s nature. They were affronted that Arkus saw them merely as jesters. No one mourned the death of Osesha, as weavers are entirely selfish creatures, but Iassia remembered the great fear and hatred the act had produced in them. As soon as Arkus was gone, their thoughts began to fly between the trees in a whirlwind debate. For once, the weavers were united. They would abandon Paradise.
At the Garden’s gate they had found the Guardian, one of Arkus’s strongest servants, whom they knew would not allow them passage. While no single weaver could affect such a powerful mind as his, collectively they dealt him an onslaught of confusion and terror, driving him insane in a matter of moments. He left his post to rage into the Garden, mad and destructive. With the gate abandoned, things that had no place in Arkus’s Paradise began to drift through. Against this backdrop of growing chaos, the weavers made good their escape into the world. That was a fun day, thought Iassia.
Knowing that Arkus’s anger would be great once he discovered their treachery, the weavers fled to the newly created Fenvarrow. They could not find Assedrynn in the mortal world, but they did find Kryzante, then the High Priest of Assedrynn, who would later become the first Shadowdreamer. Kryzante had offered the birds a bargain: if three would serve him until the time of his death, he would perform the rituals needed to convert the weavers’ magic into shadow and so hide them from Arkus. The weavers agreed. Kryzante warned the birds that though their souls were now hidden, if someone summoned Arkus’s attention by using a weaver’s true name, Arkus would be able to recognise his wayward servant. Such a weaver would not enjoy its return to Paradise.
Paradise, thought Iassia derisively. Another arrogance of Arkus to call it such. Give me a world full of puny minds to torment – that’s paradise.
He twittered again as he watched over the sleeping form of Corlas.
Battu sat back in Refectu with building satisfaction. Not only was Tyrellan safely on the way to Skygrip with the child, but the weaver bird had had some stunning luck. Discovery of the child’s father might prove useful in itself, but there was something even more incredible about Iassia’s new friend. Beneath the man’s overgrown hair and beard, beneath the dirt-encrusted skin, Battu had recognised a face he’d never expected to see again. He’d forced himself to forget his assailant at the Shining Mines, the warrior who’d dealt him a grievous blow yet slipped through his clutches unscathed. Though he’d desired revenge, Battu had had the sense not to tear up Kainordas looking for a single man. Yet here the man was again, this time the father of the prophesied child.
Perfect.
A plan began to form, one that married purpose with revenge, and the longer the dark lord thought about it, the wider the smile stretched across his face.
Eight
Fate’s Children
Tyrellan strode across the Stone Fields, satisfied that he was back under the Cloud. Battu’s distraction had worked welclass="underline" on the journey home, enemy patrols had been thinner than usual. He’d managed to go undetected until the very last stretch, which had been across wasteland with little cover. Risks had been taken and he had been spotted. No matter. No Varenkai force would ever catch him in his homeland, if they dared to cross the border. Most Kainordans were too terrified by the presence of the Trapped, though there was little the floating spirits could do to harm them. Weak-willed fools.