Several bubbles broke at once.
‘She wanted to see me again, you see, that’s why she held on so long. I am too late by only a year. She was modest too. We lived in a mud hut, not in the tree. She wanted an ordinary life, I think. Probably she had one. Probably it is not unusual to lose one’s family. Ills equal and worse befall many.’
‘I expect so,’ said Losara.
Something humanoid rose from the bog. Mud streamed from its misshapen head and off broad shoulders, running down root-like arms that ended in silver claws. Two pearl-like eyes appeared above a maw full of razor shards, and tendrils sprouted all over its body, grasping at the air. Lalenda hissed and leaped in front of Losara, her own retractable claws flashing out, low to the ground and ready to spring with her wings flat against her back. Losara could not say which surprised him more – the sudden arrival of the Mireform, or the way Lalenda instinctively protected him.
‘Be at peace, Mire Pixie,’ said the Mireform, its voice wet and gurgling. ‘I do not mean your master harm.’
Losara put a calming hand on Lalenda’s back. ‘Rise, savage little,’ he said.
Hesitantly, and not letting her eyes off the creature, she straightened and her claws withdrew – almost.
‘Why do you come here?’ asked Losara. ‘Do you not know that this bog is a sacred burial ground to the pixies?’
‘Their dead float high above us in the bog,’ replied the creature. ‘They do not disturb us.’
Losara wondered if he had been deliberately misunderstood.
‘I come to recognise Losara Shadowhand,’ said the Mireform, ‘favoured by the Dark Gods. I come to pledge him the allegiance of the Mireform.’
Losara was pleased. Mireforms were rarely seen, and it took much power to summon one from the depths of the bog, let alone convince it into service. They were traditionally neutral, or perhaps apathetic to the worries of the world above. To have one appear and make such a promise was completely unexpected.
‘Who are you to make this offer for all the Mireform?’ Losara asked.
‘I am Eldew,’ it replied. ‘And I am the biggest.’
‘And why would you make it?’
‘You are worthy,’ said Eldew. ‘And you will try to save Fenvarrow. Perhaps with the Mireform, you have a better chance.’
‘I imagine so,’ said Losara. ‘I gratefully accept your offer. When the time is right, I may hold you to your word.’
‘Return here to call for me,’ said Eldew. ‘I shall return.’
The Mireform sank away with a slurp, the mud settling after it. Losara turned to Lalenda and smiled.
‘You tried to protect me,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’
She blushed.
Thirty-one
Old Fire
It had been slow going and, although Iassia had seen the turn of many centuries, he’d found himself experiencing impatience. The blind woman was out of her element and did not move with the same sureness as she had back at the farm. Iassia remembered how, when he had first found the place again and watched her from trees on the hill above, he had not even realised her sight was gone. She had known the exact number of steps to the chicken shed, opened the gate without fumbling, collected eggs from familiar places. It had been as he’d swooped in closer that he’d noticed her eyes did not track, but simply stared into some knowable distance. It had made things a little trickier. Convincing commoners that he was a servant of Arkus sent to help them was not so easy, even with a little psychic nudging, but a blind woman was even more sceptical that she was really talking to a bird. Often when Iassia spoke, people did not believe their eyes, but she hadn’t even had those to disbelieve with. Luckily the child, Essie, had been there too. While her mother, Frera, may have forgotten the burning need for revenge, in Essie he found it still ran hot, and she had been easier to steer. The girl lumped blame for her mother’s blindness at Corlas’s feet, right along with the death of her father. Apparently it had not been long after Chavus’s demise that Frera, weak with grief, had caught the wasting disease that clouded her eyes. ‘Arkus is just,’ Iassia had said to Essie, ‘and desires that justice is delivered to his people.’ The girl had looked upon him as if she’d been waiting for him all her life.
It had not taken long to convince her – a little longer for the mother – that they needed to follow him to the Open Halls and exact amends if ever they were to know peace. The road, however, had been ploddingly, maddeningly slow. Frera walked with a stick and was impossible to hurry, even though Essie tried, taking her by the arm to half-pull her along.
Iassia had decided he needed to take action. As he landed before them, the bag of coins in his beak jangled.
‘Here,’ he said, dropping it in front of Essie. ‘When we come to the next village, we will hire someone with a cart to drive us.’
It would mean he’d need to stay out of view, or at least not talk, but it was better than spending a year on the road at a snail’s pace.
Essie’s eyes lit up as she spilled coins across her palm. ‘Where did you get these?’
That was easy. ‘Arkus will always provide what is needed,’ he chirped merrily.
‘Bless you, Arkus,’ she said, holding the coins to her chest and looking to the heavens.
Bless you indeed, thought Iassia, thinking of the old couple further back down the road who would soon discover that their life savings were missing.
As Bel approached, he could see that something was happening at the barracks. There was a gathering by the archery range, and clothes of grandeur suggested a lordly presence. Black-and-yellow-striped Zyvanix rose in the air. Normally Bel would have been curious, but today he was too full of purpose and his eyes sought only the Throne. As he drew closer he spotted Naphur amidst a group of lords and ladies, looking uncomfortable in unusually resplendent robes. Next to him was the wasp Trusted, poised on two of her stick-like legs while the other four hung loosely from her abdomen. Her legs were decorated with gold and silver bands and there was some kind of pale substance encrusted in patterns on her body. Flanking her was a man and another Zyvanix, whom Bel guessed to be the two translators. As a cheer went up for a particularly good shot, Naphur said something to the wasp translator, who in turn buzzed and clicked it on to his mistress.
‘Bel!’
Bel paused mid-stride.
Corlas arrived at his side. ‘Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you all morning.’
‘I was at the keepers’,’ said Bel defensively.
Corlas didn’t notice. ‘An archery competition,’ he said excitedly, waving at the gathering. ‘And the wasps are showing us up!’
‘Well, they do have about a million eyes.’
‘I want you to enter,’ said Corlas. ‘Let’s stop those antennae waving about so smugly!’
‘I don’t feel like it.’ Bel broke away to continue his march towards the Throne.
‘Wait up, lad!’ said Corlas, catching up again. ‘What ails you?’
‘I need to speak with Naphur.’
Corlas saw the look of determination in his son’s eyes and immediately gripped his arm, halting his progress. ‘Whoa there, lad,’ he said. Bel looked down at the restraining hand in annoyance, but Corlas was unmoved. ‘Bel,’ he said, ‘I can see you have something serious on your mind, but trust me – you should wait.’
Bel shot a glare at him and Corlas held it levelly. Eventually Bel gave in.
‘All right,’ he said.
Corlas let go. ‘Naphur is very anxious when he’s around the Trusted. Look at how he fidgets. He hasn’t dealt much with the Zyvanix before. It’s clear he’s eager to please this beastie. The communication barrier is no help either. If you wish to talk to him, wait until the competition is over. Maybe then he can step away for a moment.’